


Love Me, Love Me Knot (English Version)

by kirin_calls, XBelladonnaX



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alpha!John, Bonding, Case Fic, Do not post to other sites, Drugs, First Time, Genre-Typical Violence, Genre-Typical dubcon, Johnlock - Freeform, Knotting, M/M, Misunderstandings, No mpreg, Omega!Sherlock, Omegaverse, Past/Present, Smut, a/b/o dynamics, heat circles, mating circles, rape (not between main chars), violence (not between main chars)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-13
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-01-30 04:55:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 36
Words: 198,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21422521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kirin_calls/pseuds/kirin_calls, https://archiveofourown.org/users/XBelladonnaX/pseuds/XBelladonnaX
Summary: In an alternate universe, the Omega Sherlock and the Alpha John meet by chance and enter into a pact which leads to far-reaching consequences.What is meant to be a simple solution to their problems turns out to be a challenge that pushes both men to their limits.+++A million thanks go toSwissMissfor this brilliant translation! You rock =^.^=
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 386
Kudos: 303





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SwissMiss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss/gifts).

**I.**

**_Present day_ **

John watched with satisfaction as the cup he'd just flung against the wall burst apart and scattered across the kitchen floor. Unfortunately, the white-hot fury he felt wasn't as quick to dissolve into its component parts. Quite the opposite. Prompted by the gratifying sound of the shattering porcelain, his gaze skidded around the kitchen, eventually landing on the dirty dishes from the night before.

_That sodding arse, can't even be bothered to do the bloody washing up..._

With a growl, John subjected the plates, glasses, and silverware to the same treatment as the cup until the sink was empty and the floor covered in shards and bits of food.

Balling his hands into fists, John stood in the kitchen, legs akimbo and breathing heavily. His vision was still clouded with a red haze. His veins throbbed painfully, sending adrenaline coursing through his body. But before he let out his anger on the personified cause of his bad mood and wrung his bloody neck, John decided it would be better to step out of the flat.

He strode forcefully into the living room, where Sherlock lay curled up on the couch with his back turned to the world.

_A poor excuse for an alpha. _That's what Sherlock had called him.

A fresh wave of anger rolled over John, rattling at the walls he'd taken such care to erect. Not even a beta would have dared speak to him like that. Much less an omega. If Sherlock didn't learn to keep his sharp tongue in check... John huffed and turned away.

"Where are you going?"

"None of your bloody business." John swept one of Sherlock's many piles of paper off the desk as he passed by. "And clean your shite up for once! It looks like a pigsty in here."

John felt more than saw Sherlock stiffen and sit up.

"Fuck you, John Watson!"

"No, fuck _you_, Sherlock _Holmes_!" John slammed the door behind him with a bang and made haste to get outside.

_Holmes..._

The omega hadn't so much as taken his last name...

If he'd known what he was setting himself up for, John never would have bonded with Sherlock.

** _Five years earlier_ **

John nervously wiped his damp palms on the coarse fabric of his jeans and cursed himself silently.

He was an alpha, dammit. He should exude strength and steadfastness. Instead, he was all sweaty and his knees were knocking. On the other hand, didn't he have reason to be anxious? After all, he was about to meet his potential life partner, his omega. There was so much riding on this rendezvous.

Mustering all of his courage, John told himself to calm down, took a deep breath, and nodded to his friend and former tutor, Mike Stamford, signalling him to open the swinging door to the laboratory in the basement of St Bartholomew's Hospital.

Two heads turned toward them as John entered the lab alongside Mike. The young, unimposing woman with the light brown ponytail lowered her eyes shyly when John looked at her, but the other person, a very attractive young man with striking cheekbones and a piercing gaze, mustered the two new arrivals with open curiosity.

John frowned, puzzled, as he studied the unequal pair. He inhaled some of the ambient air, straining to pick up a scent marker, hold onto it and pin it down. But his sensitive nose registered nothing other than some chemicals, hygiene products, stale coffee, and the rotting banana peel in the bin behind him. That was it. Nothing that indicated an omega.

John tilted his head as he considered: based on the posture of the two individuals, the woman must clearly be the omega, even if that special scent was missing. Was that the reason why she needed to actively seek an alpha? The man, confidently perched on the lab stool in front of the microscope, must therefore be a scent-neutral beta. Even though his entire attitude resembled that of an alpha. But he didn't smell like one at all.

Having had enough of the first – albeit unsuccessful – scenting, John squared his shoulders and turned toward the woman, smiling kindly.

"Hello, my name is Jo–"

"What did I tell you, Molly?" The man interrupted her. "It works."

Mike spoke up now, smirking. "John, allow me to introduce my assistant, Molly Hooper, and Sherlock Holmes..."

"… the omega." The young man slid off the stool, as lissom as a cat. His clear, bright eyes fairly burned their way into John as he strode toward him, head held high.

"What? But that's impossible!"

"Pheromone blocker. Made it myself." The omega stopped in front of John, a self-satisfied grin on his face and obvious pride in his voice. He lifted his chin to expose his neck to John. "Here, tell me what you smell."

John automatically leaned forward and sniffed at the creamy white skin. If this man was an unbonded omega, John's hormones should already be roiling. But as hard as he tried, he couldn't make out any special scent markers.

Sherlock smelled good, no doubt. Mainly of shampoo, hair products, and shower gel. Fainter was the fragrance of fabric softener on his fine-knit pullover, underlaid by the aroma of coffee, a trace of peppermint toothpaste, petrichor in his hair, and... John moved in even closer, nearly touching the delicate skin beneath the man's ear with his nose. There. An echo of something delectable. Something that made John's mouth water and his heart rate kick up a notch.

Wildflower honey, summer rain, nightshade and adventure. Danger. Moonlight. How did moonlight smell? John didn't know, and yet that tiny patch of skin on Sherlock's neck smelled just like it. A tone of yearning escaped John's throat. He swallowed hard, licked his dry lips, and withstood the urge to run his tongue across the fragile omega skin.

Clearing his throat deliberately, Sherlock took a decisive step back, creating space between himself and John.

"Well, we're still in the trial phase, and alphas don't usually come quite that close to me. Which can certainly be counted as a success. In any event..." The omega's eyes scanned John, displaying a clear interest. "How often have you been turned down?"

"Turned down? I don't understand."

Sherlock returned to his seat behind the microscope with a scowl and stared demonstratively down the eyepiece. "The military academy. How often have you been rejected?"

John turned to Mike, flabbergasted. "Did you tell him?"

Mike shook his head with a small smile. "Not a word – and yes, he's always like that. Come on, Molly, let's leave the two of them alone so they can get to know each other better." He tugged the woman with him as he headed toward the door; she cast a cowed look in John's direction and a wistful one toward Sherlock on her way out.

John found himself suddenly alone with the omega. He was of two minds himself as to whether he should leave the lab as well. It was unseemly for an unbonded alpha to be alone with an omega. Not that it was forbidden, precisely, but it was still completely inacceptable according to etiquette. Not to mention dangerous. If John succumbed to his alpha instinct, he'd have the omega bent over the table, staking his claim on him. Fortunately, however, there were no omega pheromones to cloud his judgment.

"Don't worry, I can take care of myself."

"What? I wasn't..."

Sherlock lifted his eyes from the microscope with a sigh and fixed them on John. "Typical alpha. You may be quick and physically powerful, but intellectually you're virtually inflexible."

"Hey, watch it!"

By rights, John should be showing the omega who was the boss, either verbally or physically. Yet strangely, his impertinence amused John more than it angered him.

Sherlock also seemed to be fully aware of the fact that he'd overstepped more than one boundary: he'd lowered his eyes automatically and was fiddling with the adjustment knobs on the microscope. "Well? How often have you been rejected? Twice... no, three times. Am I right?"

"Three times, but how did you know?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Everything about your appearance fairly screams military. The way you stand, your haircut, and of course the scent rolling off you. The scent of desperation and need. Why else would you _require_ an omega?"

"Who says I..."

Sherlock sighed again and stood to approach John. This time maintaining a safe distance of at least a metre and a half between them.

"I told Mike I was looking for an alpha yesterday, and today he traipses into the lab with one in tow. That can't possibly be a coincidence. Or as my brother says, the universe is rarely so lazy."

"What does that have to do with the military academy?"

"Simple, John. You're working here as a junior physician. That much is clear from the ID card clipped to your jeans. It's a profession that can be carried out by an unbonded alpha as long as it's not in an omega clinic. But it's not what you want. As I said, your entire appearance signals military, yet you're not there. I therefore deduce that your upbringing is the cause, and that your family has served Queen and country for at least three generations. You don't just want to join the army; it's been expected of you since you were a child. But that's not possible for an unbonded alpha."

Intrigued, the omega took a step closer to John, thereby reducing the gap between them – whether consciously or not.

"Of course you didn't know that. How could you? After all, no one's ever presented as an alpha in your family before. Or at least, not that you know of. Don't worry, there's nothing shameful about being ignorant of the fact. Families like yours don't tend to keep family trees."

"Families like _mine_?"

Sherlock effected a lackadaisical shrug and waved vaguely between John's head and his feet. "The underprivileged classes. I mean, look at you."

John flinched back as if Sherlock had slapped him, tugging automatically at his faded jumper. It was old, washed once too many times, and stretched out of shape, just like his jeans, which had also seen better days. To say nothing of his worn-out trainers. He felt the red of embarrassment rise to his cheeks. And here he was an alpha, putting on such a display in front of an omega! His family's impoverishment had always been a sour spot for John, and he'd worked hard to pay for medical school.

At the same time, Sherlock didn't give the impression that he'd intended to insult John but rather merely stated a fact, as he now continued blithely: "No one in your family expected an alpha. It's highly unusual with two beta parents anyway. Or are you the result of an extramarital affair? Hm... interesting."

John felt anger gathering in his gut. He wasn't going to let an omega push him around like this. For his part, Sherlock didn't seem to have noticed the shift in John's mood, as he kept chattering on like a train barrelling obliviously down the track.

"Either way. Your family was too poor to set money aside for you to have a financial cushion for wooing an omega. But you need an omega to join the army. Ergo: you're here for me. Am I right?"

John squeezed his hand into a fist and gritted his teeth. He felt the stirrings of that slight tremor which always appeared when he was angry. "Yes, you've hit the nail on the head with just about everything. As well as having a pretty big mouth. For an omega."

John couldn't help voicing the reprimand, but Sherlock just responded with another shrug and returned to the lab counter. John's attention was distracted by Sherlock's long fingers as he picked up a pipette and twirled it. Silence settled on the room. The only sound was the constant dripping of a leaky tap.

"It's not fair that I can only join the army if I'm bonded," John said eventually in order to break the silence.

"But necessary," Sherlock replied.

"Why?" John demanded, a hint of desperation in his voice. He indicated the various chemicals, flasks, and other instruments standing on the table in front of Sherlock. "If an omega can develop a pheromone blocker in a little lab like this, the government must be able to mass produce something similar. It could be just as easy as that! All the omegas would be safe, and I could serve."

Sherlock let out a humourless laugh and mustered John with a combination of disbelief and fascination. "You really think the government doesn't allow unbonded alphas in the military in order to protect omegas?"

"Of course! Why else should–"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. "You're really not the brightest, are you? Rape, sexual assault, unwanted bonds – that all happens all the time and the military's always covered it up. The actual reason is the risk which alphas might be exposed to.

"Omega pheromones are akin to a biological weapon. It doesn't even need to be isolated and concentrated. One single omega in heat strategically placed in front of a military camp or hidden outpost, and all the alphas would not only scurry out of their hiding places like randy dogs, they'd be at each other's throats too. A bonded alpha is difficult enough to control, but an unbonded one doesn't differentiate between friend and foe when they're in rut.

"So you see, no one cares about us. The only concern is those like you, despite the fact that you're the weak link at the mercy of your baser instincts."

John became more and more aghast as he listened to the omega's explanation. Although he didn't like to admit it, what Sherlock was saying made a lot of sense. John was also furious at himself for not having realised the momentousness of the prohibition. He'd always been the one who felt discriminated against, as an unbonded alpha.

"In any event..."

John watched with bewilderment as Sherlock casually pulled his jumper over his head and undid the top couple of buttons of the shirt he was wearing underneath. He turned his back to John and exposed the nape of his neck.

"Shall we do it right here?"

+++

tbc


	2. Chapter 2

** _Five years earlier_ **

"You can't possibly be serious?!" John laughed in disbelief and folded his arms in order to prevent his hands from doing something regrettable.

Sherlock stood a short distance away with his back turned, looking over his shoulder at John. He had unbuttoned his shirt far enough to pull it down and expose the back of his neck. He couldn't help but notice the way John licked his lips – whether consciously or not – as his eyes wandered across Sherlock's bare skin. However, they quickly focused on Sherlock's profile when he noticed that he was being observed.

"Of course I'm serious! You need an omega to join the army, and I need an alpha who allows me my freedom. This is the perfect opportunity. Even you must realise that!" Sherlock said, giving John a determined glare.

The alpha looked anything but convinced, however. "Why do you want to–?"

Sherlock cut off the question with an irritated sigh and turned his back on John completely. "Why, why, why! I have absolutely no interest in being told what to do by some alpha for the rest of my life. You, on the other hand, are quite obviously looking for a life that not only promises a certain amount of adventure, but will also provide you with glory and honour. In order to achieve that, you need to bond with an omega. I could be that omega. As long as you don't expect anything more than the bond."

"Well... I don't know..."

"Where's the problem?" Sherlock asked irately. He was slowly but surely losing his patience. Couldn't this idiot see that the solution to all of their problems was right there in front of their noses? "You're not going to be able to afford to court an omega any time soon – that much is clear. I'm offering you a once in a lifetime opportunity to fulfil your dream, and the only thing I require in return is that you let me have my freedom."

John glanced from Sherlock to the lab counter and back again as he considered. The tap was still dripping. Every _drip-drip-drip_ another second of hesitation threatening to foil Sherlock's plan. He bit the inside of his cheek, desperately hoping that his words would take root and convince the alpha. But the young doctor didn't seem to be quite as empty-headed as he appeared.

"Offspring. Is that the problem?" Sherlock asked. He pulled his shirt back up over his shoulders, although he didn't button it back up.

"What?" John looked even more confused than he had a few moments ago.

"Are you hesitating because you want to have children when you return from service, and know that you can't have any with me? In that case, I'm sorry for wasting your time." Sherlock was already in the middle of turning around and chalking up the attempt as a failure, when John spoke up.

"No, that's not it. I... never wanted any. A bond with a male omega would be... perfect, actually. But... we don't know anything about each other."

"Isn't that an additional advantage?" Sherlock asked, raising his eyebrows.

"Hm," John said, undecided. "How do I know that you won't turn up at my place some day and try to get your hands on my money?"

Sherlock stared at the alpha in disbelief before bursting into laughter. When he'd calmed down again, he shook his head, still grinning. He looked at John, who was slightly red in the face.

"Don't worry, that won't happen. My family is well off enough to prevent me from landing in the gutter for the next hundred years. In addition to which, I'm more than capable of earning my own keep. We'd have nothing more to do with each other after the bond is completed."

John nervously shifted from one foot to the other, obviously trying not to show how ashamed he was, whilst still weighing up the options.

"How do you think this will work? Do we wait until... until your next..." John asked, making a vague gesture with one hand that could have meant anything at all.

"No. I have no interest in sharing my heat with you. You'll bite me, triggering the chemical response. After that, all we have to do is fill out the necessary paperwork in order to make the whole thing official, and voila! We proceed to go our separate ways. You can play at soldiers, and I– "

"It's going to hurt."

"Excuse me?"

"The bite. It's going to hurt outside of a heat. A lot. I'll have to bite hard enough to break the skin. Enough that a scar forms. You do realise that?" John asked.

The concern in his voice made Sherlock swallow hard. "That's the whole point of it... the scar," he said quietly, looking down at the floor. His fingers traced a scratch in the surface of the countertop, rubbing across the hard edges, the space where material had been scooped out as the result of a thoughtless movement.

"It wouldn't be like that during a heat. The hormones would ensure that– "

"Don't you think I know fairly well how an omega works? Do you really believe that one small bite will do more damage than knotting with some random alpha who my brother picked out so he could finally get me out of his hair?!" Sherlock fell silent, shocked at his own words, and snapped his mouth shut. He'd given away much more than he'd intended. But it was too late now. He needed to convince John. At any cost.

Sherlock strode decisively toward John and grasped him by the shoulders, digging his fingers into the fabric of his jacket. "Don't you see? We could make a pact, get what we can out of it for both of us. Namely our freedom!"

** _Present day_ **

_Bloody alpha!_

Sherlock huffed angrily and pushed himself up off the couch, went over to the window and snapped the drape aside to have an unencumbered view of the street. He got there just in time to see John step out of the building and march across the street – without so much as looking to one side or the other – as if he had a God-given right to do so.

_Just look at how sprightly you're walking all of a sudden_, Sherlock grumbled to himself, curling his lip defiantly. It was completely ridiculous that John didn't realise how much he was fooling himself. He'd been back in London for four weeks now – four weeks that seemed to drag on forever, since he'd bunkered down with Sherlock – without so much as finding a job or making himself useful in any way. Given the circumstances, was it so objectionable to point out his ineptitude?

"My leg hurts, dammit! I can barely stand!"

"Then look for a job where you can sit all day! Or admit that you're fooling yourself! Right now you're nothing more than a poor excuse for an alpha!"

The words echoed in Sherlock's head, making him roll his eyes and huff with exasperation. He was right, of course he was. He'd never seen an alpha put on such a pitiable act before. But why should he have expected anything different?

Sherlock eyed the huge mess John had made with disgust. It wasn't just the kitchen floor that was covered in broken pottery; some shards of glass and porcelain had bounced into the living room and were now dotting the carpet. On top of that, Sherlock's papers lay scattered everywhere. Copies of statements, crime scene photos, and lab reports had slid out of their folders and fluttered to the floor, where they now lay spread out and mixed up with other documents. It would take hours if not days to sort through everything again.

Making a quick decision, Sherlock grabbed his phone from the coffee table and opened the text app.

_I need the copies of the McKenzie file again – SH_, he typed in and pressed Send. The answer arrived just a few seconds later.

_What happened to the copies I brought you yesterday?_

Sherlock glanced down at the pile of papers and snorted derisively before composing a reply.

_They had an accident – SH_

He stuffed the phone into the pocket of his dressing gown, picked up the cup that sat on the coffee table, and lifted it to his lips. The contents had long since gone cold and stale. Rather than drinking it, he impulsively dumped the tea out over the papers and the carpet, dropped the cup, and stepped over the mess towards his room, his head held high. Once there, he slammed his door shut and twisted the key in the lock, flung himself down onto his bed, and glared morosely at the ceiling.

Four weeks! This wasn't how it was supposed to go. John was supposed to stay in the army and get a desk job when he could no longer serve on active duty. The plan had definitely not been for him to insinuate himself here just because they'd bonded.

What did Sherlock care that his alpha had been forced into retirement after being shot? The government apparently saw things differently. They'd given John Sherlock's new address and told him to go live with his _partner_ – as was proper.

Sherlock remembered all too well the moment when John had turned up at the door, his meagre possessions stuffed into a duffle bag, leaning heavily on the cane at his side, and stated with a pinched expression that he was back and moving in.

They'd done nothing but argue ever since.

Mrs Hudson, the elderly lady who lived on the ground floor and rented out the first-floor flat to Sherlock, had pointed out that there was a second bedroom upstairs that John could use, if they should need two bedrooms.

"Of course we'll be needing two!" Sherlock had cried before tearing John's duffle bag out of his hand and carrying it upstairs. The space hadn't been used in a while, so it was dusty and crammed with all sorts of junk there wasn't room for downstairs – but that wasn't Sherlock's problem.

Instead, he'd rung Mycroft and asked whether there weren't another solution. Mycroft had explained to Sherlock in that condescending manner he had, that a bond between an alpha and an omega was as good as a life-long contract that couldn't just be broken on a whim, and that John had every right to move in with him. Sherlock would quite simply have to get used to the situation.

Sherlock had ranted and shouted, but there was nothing for it. He'd made his own bed – he was well aware of that – and he hated it with every fibre of his being.

The worst part of it all, though, was the fact that his body had begun to react to the alpha's proximity. Sherlock had been spared the usual heats for five years: his body had known that his alpha was far, far away and unavailable for knotting. In those five years, Sherlock had learned to live alone – only to have his freedom ripped away from him now.

He'd been feeling the changes for several days now. His senses were heightened, especially his sense of smell. John's scent had been present in the flat for a long time already; even before his return, Sherlock had been acquainted with it, Sherlock's own scent having combined with John's after the bite and creating a new olfactory mark that he'd had to get used to. Now John was constantly in his nose, and the urge to shove his face into the other man's neck and press up against him as close as humanly possible was a continual lurking presence on the edge of his perception.

Sunshine and sand, fire and smoke. But also serenity – like the reflective surface of a mountain lake. Water. Wood and moss. There were so many contradictions, it was driving Sherlock mad.

His other senses were enhanced too. He could see more, was able to enumerate the various nuances of colour in John's blond hair and recognise the brown speckles in his blue irises, even from a distance. He noticed the curve of John's narrow lips, his five o'clock shadow, the film of moisture on his pink tongue whenever he licked his dry lips. Over and over and _over_ again.

It wasn't fair!

The previous day, Sherlock had taken his temperature and found it to be slightly elevated. He didn't feel sick, though; on the contrary. Excess energy surged through his muscles, making them twitch nervously. He wanted to do something, wanted to tidy and cook and _eat_. None of which he intended to do. After all, Sherlock wasn't _that_ kind of omega. Domestic and caring. No. Never!

Fighting the nesting instinct was just making him even tetchier than usual.

And instead of telling John about his problem, he'd rung Detective Inspector Lestrade and bothered him until the man brought him a case. The McKenzie file. But his appearance on Baker Street had only led to another argument between John and Sherlock, and sent Lestrade scurrying away as fast as he could. John didn't want another alpha in the flat – bonded or not. His territorial behaviour was getting worse each day.

Did he also sense that Sherlock was approaching a heat? Did he suspect what that meant for Sherlock?

Before bonding with John, Sherlock had only had sporadic heats. He'd also rarely spent much time in the presence of any alphas – aside from his brother, but fortunately Mycroft's pheromones didn't have any effect on Sherlock. There weren't any medications that could suppress a heat entirely, meaning that he had no other choice than to endure those days of uncontrollable lust and torment by himself.

In the five years without John, Sherlock had continued to work on his pheromone blockers, but he still hadn't succeeded in making the effects last very long, much less developing a heat suppressant. It turned out that biology wasn't as easy to fool as he'd hoped.

The problem was that Sherlock had no idea how many days or even hours he had left before his body rebelled against him and his heat began.

He needed to drive John away before then. No matter what it took.

+++

tbc


	3. Chapter 3

** _Present day_ **

When John returned to Baker Street early that evening, he found Mrs Hudson in the flat. The broken dishes had been swept up from the floor and were now tidied away in a bin bag. The landlady was currently trying to scrub the stains from the leftover food off the wall with a soapy sponge.

There was no sign of Sherlock, and John's nerves, precariously stitched back together over the course of the afternoon, began to fray once more.

"What are you doing here, Mrs Hudson?"

She shrugged and rubbed at a spot that might have been either chicken curry or Earl Grey until it disappeared. Satisfied with the result, she straightened and turned toward John. As soon as she registered his pinched expression, she grabbed for the handle of her cleaning bucket to maintain her balance.

"I heard the two of you arguing, John. And so I thought to myself, 'Before the poor boy goes off his food again—'"

She stopped speaking and sheepishly gestured at a casserole pan that smelled seductively like lasagne.

"The _poor boy_?" John barked, livid. "Sherlock has only himself and his big mouth to blame for all of this. You needn't reward him with food on top of it. Much less do his chores for him. Don't you always insist you're not our housekeeper? Go on, get out. I don't want to have you up here."

John ignored the hurt expression on Martha Hudson's face as she stalked out of the kitchen in high dudgeon. What he'd said was true, after all. He didn't want the elderly woman in the flat. He didn't want anyone here. Not her, not that policeman who brought Sherlock those dubious cases and had just marched into his territory the day before as if he had any right to do so. He didn't want to see _anyone_... except –

_Where is he anyway?_

It was a rhetorical question, since all John needed was one deep breath to locate Sherlock and his alluring omega scent inside his bedroom.

Was John mistaken, or was his scent getting stronger every day? Maybe he was just getting used to the various smells inside 221B, and was thus better able to distinguish amongst them so that Sherlock's marker stuck out more prominently when he looked for it.

John went into the living room, where he found not only the remains of the mess he'd left behind, but also what Sherlock had added to it. The papers he'd swept off the table in his rage were now completely soaked with tea. The empty teacup lay beside them on the carpet like an upturned finger.

_That's it!_

The simmering anger flared up with the power of a flash fire, the sight of the living room floor acting like fuel being poured onto coals.

He covered the distance across the room and down the hall in just a few strides, ending up in front of Sherlock's bedroom door. He turned the knob, only to discover that the door was locked. He banged on the flimsy wood with his fist, making the door rattle in its hinges.

"Open the goddamned door!"

A tired-sounding response came from inside the room: "Go away, John."

"Are you sleeping in there while Mrs Hudson is sneaking around up here uninvited, doing your chores for you? Get your spoilt-brat arse out of your room this instant and make yourself useful!"

John heard movement inside the room, then quick steps approaching. The door was unlocked and torn open with a jerk. Sherlock glared at him, furious.

"_I _should make myself useful? _Me_? Ever since you've arrived, you've done nothing but complain, whinge, and wallow in self-pity. You do absolutely nothing and don't make so much as the slightest contribution around here. If you've got it into your head to denigrate me to the status of an omega, then you could at least behave like an alpha, and not like a... " Sherlock drew the corners of his mouth downward with disgust. "...useless beta."

Afterwards, John couldn't explain exactly how it had happened. What he did know was that his anger had gained the upper hand, immersing him and his surroundings in a cloak of red fury. One second, he'd been staring at Sherlock, grinding his teeth, and the next he'd grabbed him by the throat with an enraged growl and pushed him up against the wall. The force of the impact brought Sherlock to his knees from his former superior position, and he now stared up at John, his pupils wide with shock.

"You want me to act like an alpha?" John rumbled, mere centimetres away from Sherlock's face.

With an iron grip, he dragged Sherlock back up to standing by his neck and shoved him backwards into his bedroom. As soon as John felt Sherlock's legs touch the bed, he stopped moving and increased the pressure on his throat a bit more.

"Be glad I don't act like an alpha, Sherlock. Because otherwise I've have taken what's rightfully mine a long time ago!"

He pressed his nose greedily up against the base of Sherlock's neck, inhaling the delectable scent which stood out so prominently there and was now flooding his bloodstream. Then he pushed Sherlock roughly down onto the bed, turned on his heel, and left the room without looking back.

He hurried up the stairs to his room on the second floor and stuffed a few pieces of clothing into his duffle. He couldn't stay here. He'd always had a hot temper and been extremely easy to provoke. But he'd never lost control of himself this quickly before. He'd physically attacked a defenceless man – _his omega_! But the worst part of it was the throbbing erection which that little power move had left him with. John leaned against the wall, breathing heavily, pushed down on the massive bulge in his trousers with the flat of his hand, and implored his dick to deflate. The last thing he wanted to do right now was bring himself off while thinking about the omega in the room underneath him.

It took a few minutes, but his body eventually calmed down enough for him to finish packing and leave the flat with a firm footstep.

He'd spend a few days at Harry's and think about how he wanted his life to continue. He'd never expected to be injured so seriously in combat that he'd be sent home on an invalid pension. He'd never expected to have to ask Sherlock for shelter. Good God, he'd never even expected to see the man again. And if he did, then not in his current condition, but as the powerful alpha he'd once been.

John stopped in his tracks on the pavement in front of 221B when he heard someone calling. He grunted and looked up toward the open window where Sherlock stood, his cheeks bright red and a murderous glint in his eye.

"What?!" John barked.

"Here!" Sherlock shouted, drew his arm back, and hurled something down at him like a spear-thrower. "Don't forget this. After all, you're in such dire need of it!"

John's cane landed beside him with a loud clatter. Above him, the window closed with a distinct bang.

Furious, John kicked the cane so hard that it skittered away from him along the pavement. Then he walked away. Maybe he'd go bunk down at Mike Stamford's instead. It would serve him right. After all, he'd been the one responsible for getting him into this whole miserable situation with Sherlock.

** _Five years ago_ **

John had asked for a few days to think about it. He'd used the time to visit his parents ('We would be so proud of you, son'), call Harry ('Are you completely off your trolley? You can't possibly be seriously considering it!'), and have a long talk with Mike. The latter had assured him that Sherlock was very serious about finding an alpha, but had neither encouraged nor discouraged John from bonding with him. He said John would have to make that decision himself. He'd merely felt a responsibility to introduce the two of them since they were faced with a similar type of problem.

Barely a week after their first meeting, John now found himself in the posh borough of Kensington in the heart of London, decision made. He was going to bond with the omega, Sherlock Holmes, that very day.

Feeling on edge, he squeezed his hands into fists – an unconscious nervous habit – and glanced up at the smart house front in front of him. Even before he'd taken his finger off the golden bell on house number 59, the door was pulled open and he was drawn inside.

John's nose was immediately filled with the dominant alpha scent of the master of the house. It smelled of whisky, tobacco, and tweed. Fragrances that might normally be associated with cosiness, but here they were oddly paired with an undertone of hoarfrost and... John couldn't think of a better word than highbrow gentry. The faint scent of an omega – not Sherlock – hovered in the background.

Before John was able to process all of the impressions bombarding his senses – or even so much as take a look around the imposing entry hall – he was being led by the sleeve to a broad staircase and chivvied upstairs.

"We need to hurry, John. My brother will be back soon, and I don't want to have him here when we do... that."

John smirked as he let himself be led down a long hallway, his footsteps muted by the shag carpeting. It all felt strongly reminiscent of his teenage years, when his first girlfriend had secretly smuggled him into her bedroom so that they could exchange bashful kisses and innocent touches. Although to be fair, the bedroom that Sherlock ushered him into had absolutely nothing in common with a teenager's room.

The space was a great deal larger than the tiny flat John currently lived in, and decorated in shades of blue and grey. There was a huge double bed against one wall, and a large desk with the latest generation in laptops and a well-filled bookcase along another. A suite of furniture was arranged in front of a double-leaf window, along with a music stand. An open violin case lay on one of the side tables. Two doors – presumably leading to a bathroom and a walk-in closet – were set in the wall next to the bed. Everything was clean and tidy, and smelled fantastic.

John felt horribly out of place.

"Are you certain you want to do this? With me?"

Sherlock had already slipped out of his silk dressing gown, and looked at John with surprise. "Of course I want to. Haven't we already discussed it enough?"

John nodded, resigning himself to his fate. They had indeed discussed it, more than once. The first time in the lab at Bart's, followed by several phone conversations. Sherlock had always made an earnest attempt to convince John of the wisdom of their plan. John had given serious consideration to the pros and cons, and finally decided in favour of the bond. But now that he was here in this posh city flat, all of those uncertainties once again rose to the surface. What was Sherlock doing with him, plain old penniless John Watson? He had nothing to offer this omega.

On the other hand, Sherlock didn't want anything. He didn't want an alpha to take care of him. He wanted something that John _could_ give him: freedom.

And yet...

"Sherlock, wait."

Sherlock sighed and let go of the hem of his t-shirt, which he had been about to pull over his head. "What is it now?"

"Come here, sit down with me for a mo'."

John took Sherlock by the wrist and led him to the seats by the window. They sat down side-by-side on the leather chesterfield. John turned to face Sherlock and scrutinised the young man thoroughly. He had a slender build and was relatively tall for an omega. At the same time, he didn't appear lanky. Quite the opposite: he was graceful and elegant. With his porcelain skin, pale eyes shimmering in several ocean shades, dark curls, and expressive face, Sherlock was incredibly attractive. And he smelled so good...

He was everything an alpha could ever want, and he was offering himself up to John on a silver platter. A precious fruit that was virtually begging to be picked. But was he a forbidden apple? Or worse? Was John the serpent in the garden who would ruin this omega's future if he formed a bond with him?

"Have you changed your mind?" Sherlock appeared disappointed. His fingers twisted nervously around each other in his lap.

John shook his head, impulsively taking Sherlock's hands in his and giving them an encouraging squeeze. To John's surprise, Sherlock didn't pull away, just watched him expectantly.

"No, not at all. I haven't changed my mind. I just want to know whether you're really sure. If the two of us bond, we'll be robbing you of any chance to find an alpha who's truly worthy of you and all of this here. Someone you can enjoy your heats with. Someone you could – "

" – fall in love with?" Sherlock asked, extricating his fingers from John's and twisting his lips into a mocking smirk.

John nodded.

"Love is a chemical process that takes place in the brain. Heats are simply part of my biology. I have no interest in sentiment. Rest assured, John: I don't want an alpha to share my life with. All I want is freedom and the right to self-determination." Sherlock frowned and gave John a searching look. "On the other hand, if you're worried that I might be some kind of hindrance or even a ball and chain – I won't be. Surely you realise we can take other lovers. You wouldn't be cheating on me. Feel free to do whatever you want, with whomever you want. Just ignore my existence. It's not as if I'll be around. Take a mistress and..." He made a throwaway gesture. "… have fun."

"Mistress?" John laughed at the antiquated word. "All right, I see you're behind the idea a hundred percent. Okay then, let's go ahead with it. Where do you want to do it?"

His eyes wandered over to the inviting bed with midnight blue sheets, but Sherlock shook his head emphatically and pointed at the desk chair.

"I think this will suit just fine."

Sherlock pulled his t-shirt over his head and tossed it carelessly onto the floor behind him. Then he sat down on the swivel chair and placed his hands on the armrests. John thought he detected a faint trembling in those slender fingers.

"Coming?" Sherlock asked, glancing back over his shoulder.

John took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and counted to five. Then he got up and closed the short gap between them with confident steps. Even though he was completely at sixes and nines inside, the moment had arrived. He needed to be an alpha and exude his natural power to relax his omega.

They were entering into a compact that was win-win for both sides. No reason to panic.

John stopped directly behind Sherlock and examined the smooth, creamy white skin covering his narrow shoulders. He thought he could make out Sherlock's pulse fluttering in his throat. What he was sure of, though, was how fast Sherlock was breathing and how tightly he was gripping the armrests.

John would have liked nothing more than to draw Sherlock into his arms and assure him that there was no reason to be afraid. But he knew that such behaviour was neither wanted nor would be tolerated. Even though it would do both of them good. It was possible to form a bond outside of a heat, but wasn't recommended according to the textbooks John had read. The hormones and endorphins released by both alpha and omega during a heat were just that useful. But that wasn't what Sherlock wanted, and John acquiesced to his wishes.

And so he made do with leaning over Sherlock and briefly sniffing his neck. The fragrance that slammed into him made his knees feel like jelly.

"The blocker," he murmured hoarsely. "It's fading, isn't it? You smell _really_ good..."

"John..."

"Okay, okay..." John rubbed his thumb soothingly across the soft area between Sherlock's neck and shoulder: the spot he was going to bite.

He traced a line down the side of Sherlock's neck with his nose, then pressed his lips against the nape of Sherlock's neck. His tongue darted out instinctively and tasted the tender skin there; he felt Sherlock shiver beneath him. Surprisingly, that part of Sherlock's body didn't taste salty as one might expect. On the contrary, the flavour was equal parts sweet and spicy. John fancied that Sherlock's scent was getting stronger.

"Ready?" he whispered.

Sherlock made a sound of agreement that soon turned into a whimper when, without further warning, John drove his teeth forcefully into the omega.

The alpha in him roared.

John got through the multiple layers of skin much more easily than he'd feared. The metallic taste of blood exploded on his tongue, only to be immediately replaced with the heavenly flavour of honey, flower blossoms, and _unity_. Sherlock's blood and John's saliva combined in his mouth to a chemical cocktail that would seal their bond.

"Ah!" Sherlock gasped when John bit down a little harder.

John automatically reached for Sherlock's fingers, which let go of the armrests and squeezed John's hands instead, hard enough to hurt.

_I'm here. Stay calm. Let it happen_, he thought, even as he felt the tension in Sherlock's body rising the deeper his teeth sank into the tender flesh.

John closed his eyes and let the endorphins wash over him. He'd never felt anything like it before. No adrenaline high, no orgasm had shaken him to the core like what was buzzing through his body now. Heat rolled through him, making him tremble and gathering in his loins. His cock perked up and pressed against the flies of his trousers.

Sherlock seemed to be in a similar state; he was writhing in his chair and undulating his hips. The scent of omega hung so heavily in the air now that John felt drunk on it.

_Mine, mine, mine..._

Growling, John sucked the heady mixture into his mouth again before finally withdrawing his teeth. He licked the wound greedily: an angry red oval ringed by the impressions of his teeth. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock's body and heaved him up out of the chair to press his rock-hard erection against his omega's backside. He was greatly relieved when Sherlock pushed his arse back into John and moaned out loud, rather than running away as John had feared he might.

_Fuck being reasonable. Omega, my omega... _John thought to himself as he led them toward the bed, one hand wandering down to Sherlock's groin.

The sound of the door to the bedroom banging loudly against the wall made them leap apart, startled. John turned instinctively, keeping Sherlock behind him so he could act as a protective barrier between the intruder and his omega.

"What is going on here?" cried a distressed voice.

Adrenaline pumping through him, John assumed a broad-legged stance despite his erection and glared angrily at the man who had disturbed his bonding. He wiped his arm across his wet mouth to remove the mix of spit and blood that still clung to his lips. He was prepared to do battle if necessary.

"Oh, Sherlock..." the man sighed. He was wearing a hat and overcoat and carried an umbrella in one hand, as if he'd rushed to this room immediately upon setting foot in the house. His eyes passed coldly over John on their way to the omega.

"Mycroft, may I introduce my alpha?"

It was only now that John recognised the scent emanating from the man: he was obviously the alpha who owned the house, and therefore must be Sherlock's brother. John squared his shoulders and held out his hand.

"John Watson," he introduced himself.

The elder alpha mustered John from head to toe with an expression of disgust on his face, as if he had a particularly ugly insect in front of him. Then he turned away, shaking his head.

"I'll have my solicitor prepare the necessary paperwork."

+++

tbc


	4. Chapter 4

** _Five years earlier_ **

Sherlock sank down on the edge of his bed, exhausted, and lifted one hand to touch the throbbing spot between his shoulder and neck. Pain flared and zinged in angry flashes through his body, radiating out to his arms and legs and making perspiration break out on his forehead and under his arms.

"Are you all right?" John asked, having focused his attention back on Sherlock the moment Mycroft left the room.

"Yes, everything's fine. Can you … pass me my t-shirt?"

"Yeah, of course."

As Sherlock glanced over at John to reach for the article of clothing, he couldn't help but notice the remarkably large bulge at John's groin. The same one he'd felt just a few minutes earlier against his buttocks as he'd been led toward the bed, groggy with pain, in order to – _shit_.

An icy hot shiver made its way through Sherlock's body, peaking his nipples and recharging his semi-hard cock. How was it possible for him to feel so much physical desire after that barbaric bite? He reached for the t-shirt, his face flushing red, and held it against the wound as he looked away.

John, who had registered the direction of Sherlock's gaze, tugged uselessly at his jumper in order to cover up his erection, and turned away in embarrassment. "I'm sorry, that's..."

"It's fine. Just part of our biology," Sherlock said matter-of-factly as he got dressed, trying with all his might not to wince in pain. John couldn't be allowed to know how right he'd been when he'd said that the bite would hurt like hell outside of a heat.

"Sure everything's okay?" John asked, scratching nervously at the mixture of saliva and blood that had dried at the corner of his mouth.

"Of course. But I think you had best leave now. I'll contact you as soon as I have an appointment with the Alpha-Omega Registry so that we can sign the papers."

"Well... all right. Yeah, do that." John started to head for the door, but hesitated. He turned back toward Sherlock, who was deliberately ignoring him.

Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock caught John opening and closing his left fist, as if he were holding an internal debate on whether to just leave like this or not. Certain that John would return to him in an instant, given so much as the tiniest encouragement – and not at all certain that he would reject him if he did – Sherlock glared at him.

"Mycroft will be right back, and you should _not_ be here when he does, isn't that obvious?!" Sherlock barked, watching with satisfaction as John flinched before swallowing and giving him a curt nod.

"All right, ring me as soon as..." John left the rest of the sentence unspoken and exited the room.

Sherlock listened anxiously to the footsteps going down the stairs, then the click of the front door a moment later. Only then did he breathe again, rubbing his right hand across his face. He could barely move that arm. It throbbed and stung as if his nerves were on fire. Despite being left-handed, John had, contrary to instinct, chosen to place his bite on Sherlock's right side.

Well, now it was done.

Somewhere inside, Sherlock felt a sharp, cramp-like contraction that made the air in the room seem thin and brought tears to his eyes. _No, no, no!_ He couldn't face Mycroft looking like his heart had just been broken. The pain would pass soon enough, along with this strange feeling that seemed to be eating its way deeper and deeper into his cells with every passing second.

He'd endured all of this for twenty-three years; a couple more days wouldn't make a difference.

Looking back, Sherlock couldn't say how long it took before Mycroft reappeared. He'd used the time to retreat to his mind palace and sort through his chaotic emotions, shoved all of the impressions of John that he'd collected over the past few days into a separate room and barricaded the door. All they needed now was a signature, and then this chapter would be over and his life of freedom and independence could finally begin.

Mycroft looked anything but pleased when he returned to Sherlock's room. His countenance was sombre – if not downright stony – likely in the expectation that he would have to face the young alpha again. The fact that he didn't find him there, however, only seemed to increase his displeasure.

"What in the world has got into you, Sherlock?"

Sherlock snorted derisively, trying at the same time to express a nonchalance that he didn't actually feel.

"What's the big deal? I've finally found an alpha who is of the same opinion as myself, and you'll be rid of me soon enough. Did you reach your solicitor?" Sherlock asked, in order to move the conversation in the desired direction and wrap things up as soon as possible: he was in dire need of something for the pain.

"Yes... he was able to arrange an appointment for you at nine o'clock the day after tomorrow. I hope that will be convenient for this... John Watson?" Mycroft said, sceptically raising one of his well-groomed eyebrows.

"Of course. He can scarcely wait to get to the military academy. He'll be leaving London as soon as he has his documents in hand. And I shall be preparing my move." Sherlock couldn't suppress a hateful smirk at the sight of Mycroft ruefully shaking his head. He obviously couldn't believe that Sherlock would go to such lengths to get away from him.

"A soldier, Sherlock? Really? I would have thought you'd have more sense than that, after what happened with Mummy." Mycroft's voice had grown uncharacteristically loud; he was clearly struggling to maintain his composure.

"Don't be ridiculous, Mycroft. That was completely different!"

"You don't understand. Not yet. A bond between an alpha and an omega is more than just a little scar on your neck. It's a lifelong – "

"Dear _God_, spare me from having to listen things I've known forever!" In spite of the pain, Sherlock leapt to his feet and went over to the window. He pushed the drapes aside and looked out at the street, but there was no sign of John anywhere. He continued speaking without turning around. "He can't break my heart because I have no emotional connection to him. We met once and exchanged a few texts. Mummy and Dad were bonded for almost twenty years. That's something else entirely."

The sigh that came from Mycroft might have made Sherlock scream at any other time. But just now, he found it deeply gratifying.

"At any rate, it's too late now. I'll send someone out to the chemist's to purchase a disinfectant cream. When Anthea gets home – No, best not. Just stay in your room and remain quiet. I'd prefer that she hear of the incident from me." With those words, Mycroft did an about-face and left the room, pulling the door closed behind him.

*

Two days later, Mycroft, Sherlock, and John met up in front of the Alpha-Omega Registry. As soon as their eyes met, Sherlock could have sworn that his heart skipped a beat. He felt all too clearly how every part of him cried out for his alpha; how badly he wanted to cuddle up to him and breathe in his scent.

He would allow nothing of the sort, of course. Yet Sherlock fancied his heart beat louder with every step that John took towards him, his gaze never wavering from Sherlock's. The wound on his neck had stopped hurting quite so much, but now his pulse throbbed beneath the thick bandage as if part of him were trying to break out of his skin and rush over to John.

Sherlock bit his bottom lip and dug his fingernails into the palms of his hands, hidden inside the pockets of his great coat.

John had apparently borrowed a suit jacket for the occasion; it was a little too big for him and generally a poor fit. He was wearing relatively acceptable shoes, although they had also seen better days, and his hair was combed back. All in all, he didn't look too shabby. Not too shabby at all...

Sherlock tore his attention away from his alpha and checked a clock down the road in order to cover his discomfiture.

When John reached them, Sherlock automatically inhaled deeply, only to stop himself when he realised what he was doing and release the breath inconspicuously.

"Hallo!" John said with a wide grin.

"John," Sherlock said, returning the greeting and allowing a tiny smile to grace the corners of his mouth before he could rein it in.

Mycroft merely nodded at John; he obviously had no intention of getting to know the other alpha any better. "Our appointment will begin momentarily," he said, and went up the handful of steps to the entrance of the registry building, stepped through the heavy wooden door, and watched with a keen eye as John rushed to hold the door open for Sherlock, resting one hand on the small of his back in what must have been an instinctive gesture to guide him inside the building.

Sherlock flinched a little at the touch, but rather than pulling away, he leaned ever so slightly into John's hand.

The minutes that followed passed so quickly that Sherlock could barely remember them afterwards. Perhaps that was also down to the fact that he was so distracted by John and trying hard not to let anyone know it. He inhaled John's scent – which seemed to be even more titillating now than it had been the day of their initial meeting in the lab – listened to the sound of his voice without being able to make any sense of the meaning of the words, and enjoyed their purported proximity, which simply … was not … enough.

"I presume you'll be taking the name Watson?" the registrar asked Sherlock.

"Holmes," Sherlock whispered, keeping his eyes straight ahead. He heard John inhale sharply but at the same time refrain from saying a word about that decision. They hadn't spoken of it – they hadn't had the chance – but surely it couldn't be a surprise that Sherlock wanted to keep his name? Or had John truly assumed that he would want to bear the name of a family with which he was neither familiar nor wanted in his life?

As if in a trance, he signed his name on the line Mycroft indicated, then laid the pen down before the trembling in his hand became too noticeable.

Afterwards, each of them received an envelope with their certificate inside. The registrar congratulated them and wished them all the best – and then they were done.

Sherlock stood numbly in front of the Alpha-Omega Registry, shielding his eyes from the bright winter sun with his envelope.

"All right, so..."

His head whipped around when he heard John's voice.

_Stay!_

"That went faster than I'd expected."

"That part is always fast. It's everything else that usually takes longer," Mycroft said, checking his wristwatch closely. "I'll give the two of you a moment while I call the driver." He was about to walk away when Sherlock spoke up.

"Wait! That won't be necessary." Sherlock took his phone out of his trouser pocket and scrolled through the menu until he'd found what he was looking for.

_No, don't!_

"There, I've just deleted your number," he said and held the screen so that John could see it. "You shouldn't keep mine either. Our ways part here. I wish you all the best."

"Oh... sure. Right," John said and fumbled for his own phone to delete the number on his end. "That... It was... Take care of yourself, all right?"

Sherlock pressed his lips together and gazed past John's shoulder to a point in the distance. He couldn't even look this man in the face!

"You too." With that, he turned around and walked toward the main thoroughfare with his brother. He fancied he could feel John's eyes on the back of his neck for a long time.

** _Present day_ **

Sherlock's heart was beating rapidly and his cheeks burned almost as hot as the erection underneath his dressing gown. He wrapped the material more firmly around his body and turned away from the living room window in order not to have to watch John leave.

It was good that John was gone. That was the plan, after all! And it was good that he'd left voluntarily – especially after that outburst and that... thing he'd done. Sherlock shuddered as he recalled the way John had grabbed him by the throat and forced him to his knees. Behaviour like that was typical for an alpha who wanted enforce his dominance: crude and ignorant and quite simply pathetic!

And yet... yet...

Sherlock slid down the wall next to the window until he was on the floor, drawing his legs in close to his body. Between his thighs, under his pyjama trousers, his erection surged up against the fabric, creating a dark spot. Sherlock's fingers and toes clenched, digging into his hair and the carpet, seeking something to anchor him. It had been the first time in five years that they'd touched. Now, of all times, right before Sherlock's heat – and in such a rough, impetuous manner.

John hated him now – with good reason – but that was the only way to keep them apart. They'd never planned to live together, which was why things were so rocky between them. It was therefore out of the question for Sherlock to admit how much influence John had over his body. No, it was better to be rid of John and get through this heat on his own. Sherlock had done it before the bond; why should he be any less successful now?

It only took a few hours for Sherlock to realise how wrong he'd been. He'd gone to lie down on the bed at first because he'd felt dizzy and his temperature had risen again. Then he'd been overcome by such a ravenous appetite that he'd cut into the lasagne which Mrs Hudson had left on the table, and all but attacked it. He'd devoured a good quarter of it before pushing the rest away in disgust.

Now he was wandering restlessly around the flat, pacing from the kitchen to the couch and back, lying down in his bed only to leap to his feet again moments later to start another lap. He circled back and forth in front of the window, feeling like he wanted to crawl out of his skin and tugging on his hair just to feel the tension in his scalp.

It got worse after the sun went down.

There was no sign of John. No calls, no texts. Maybe Sherlock's plan had worked, and John really wouldn't return. Maybe he'd try to find a beta on whom to let out all of his bottled up anger in one way or another. Maybe he'd return to the war zone and beg his former commanding officer to take him back – anything to get away from his omega.

_Poppycock! _Sherlock scolded himself and dug his fingernails further into his scalp. He was perched on the couch, his knees folded up against his chest, brooding like an oversized bird in his homemade nest of despair.

It wasn't fair! Why did omegas have to go through hell like this while alphas had all the freedom and got to enjoy life? It simply couldn't be that the last five years were all the independence Sherlock would ever have, only to become a slave to his baser instincts now. He found it unfathomable how other omegas managed to live just for their alpha and their wellbeing, to put themselves second until they virtually faded from existence (like Anthea) or seemed to meld with their alpha in a kind of symbiosis (like Mummy). No individuality! No self-determination!

Sherlock rolled onto his side with a sigh, stretching out his legs until his feet hung over the arm of the couch. The past had taught him only too well what came next... but he didn't want to even think of that. It was hard enough already not to climb the walls.

With a sudden burst of intuition, Sherlock sat up and looked around the living room. Something must be here somewhere... but unfortunately, unlike himself, John tended not to leave his stuff lying out all over. That was probably the one good habit that had stuck with him from his time in the military.

Sherlock got up, clambered over the coffee table, and went into the kitchen, but didn't find what he was looking for there either. He made a disgruntled face and glanced at the ceiling. There was an unspoken agreement to respect the privacy of each other's bedrooms, although it had never been expressly put into words. However, desperate times called for desperate measures!

Sherlock went up to the second floor, his mouth set grimly, and pushed open the door to the single bedroom. Everything was incredibly tidy here as well. Aside from John (or Mrs Hudson – no, Sherlock couldn't smell her up here at all) having dusted and made the bed, there was no sign of the room being lived in. No photographs, no personal items lying out. Everything was as clean and tidy as a hotel room.

The clothes hung neatly in the wardrobe or lay in the dresser, folded into equal-sized squares.

_They really made you jump through all the hoops, didn't they?_ Sherlock thought and opened the drawer in the nightstand. Inside was a mystery novel that was about halfway read. One page was turned down, likely serving as a bookmark – and a jarring disturbance for Sherlock: an outrage like that completely contradicted the image which the rest of the room conveyed of John.

He snorted and slammed the drawer shut, then searched under the bed. Nothing. Not even dust bunnies. He pulled back the bedspread and lifted the pillow. Nothing. When he pivoted around, his eye fell on the laundry bin in the corner next to the dresser. _Aha!_ At the bottom of the bin lay a wadded-up t-shirt that Sherlock had never seen John wear. He must use it to sleep in.

Sherlock hastily grabbed the shirt and sniffed it. The scent that had fused with his very DNA – only a hundred times stronger – entered his nose, igniting his synapses. John's unique scent had settled in the fabric, along with old sweat – as was to be expected with dirty laundry. Sherlock didn't care either way, as it had precisely the effect he'd wanted. A blissful tingling ran through his body as he inhaled, replaced by a serene sense of peace and satisfaction on the exhale.

He could smell so much from this scrap of cloth: for example, how many hours John had worn the t-shirt over the past few nights. Even the trace of fear in his sweat. Had he had nightmares? They never spoke of such things. In fact, they spoke very little at all, outside of snapping at each other. He could also smell himself; just a bit, but it was unmistakeable. And there was something else... something that... Sherlock pressed the hem of the t-shirt more firmly against his nose and took a deep whiff. _Oh!_

Sherlock could see clear as day in his mind's eye the way John must have tossed and turned on the bed, thrusting his erection into his fist over and over again; the way he buried his head in his pillow to smother any traitorous sounds; the way he wiped his soiled fingers on a tissue afterwards and noticed that some had gone astray; the way he blotted the white spots on his t-shirt indifferently, then pulled the cover up over his shoulder to go to sleep.

It wasn't until the whimper escaped his throat that Sherlock realised he was sitting on John's bed, greedily sniffing at the t-shirt. Things couldn't continue like this! He stood up, furious, flung the shirt in the general direction of the laundry bin, and marched down the steps into his room.

*

Sherlock woke during the night from his already restless sleep. His forehead was burning up and he was breathing hard; random strands of hair stuck to his cheek. He'd flipped onto his stomach, one leg drawn up, and was rubbing his stiff penis against the sheet, over and over, as if on autopilot. He gasped softly as he felt the muscles in his lower abdomen contract. Warm liquid ran down his perineum and dribbled into his pubic hair.

He pushed his pants down past his hips with feeble hands, kicking them off his legs. Then he tugged at his t-shirt but couldn't manage to get his arms and head out before he was flooded with a hot wave of lust that made him shiver. He was overly aware of the way his anal sphincter squeezed together as if grasping for something, only to come up empty and relax again to release more moisture. The air in the bedroom was heavy with the fragrance of omega essence, which served to further cloud his mind.

Without so much as a second thought, Sherlock reached behind himself and dragged his index and middle fingers across his opening. It was hot, and twitched at the slightest touch. It was so easy to press both fingers directly through the ring of muscle and delve inside. Sherlock sobbed into his pillow as his muscles contracted again, now more urgent and desperate than ever for _something_.

He felt his way forward, then pulled his fingers back only to push them back deeper inside his body. The third time he brushed the hypersensitive bundle of nerves and sucked in a breath, almost in shock, as a burst of heat flashed through his groin. He rubbed his erection into the sheet even harder, but the friction on his glans wasn't nearly as gratifying as the tiny bumps against his prostate. Sherlock awkwardly drew up both knees so that he could support himself on them and spread his legs further without taking his fingers out. He tried desperately to build up some kind of rhythm by moving toward his fingers whilst rolling his hips. But he couldn't quite manage it. His arms and thighs were shaking too hard, and the angle of his hand was less than optimal.

Grumbling, he wiped the clear omega essence onto the bedspread and rolled onto his back. What was he supposed to do? He'd tried out several omega sex toys shortly after his very first heat, in order to handle it on his own. That had worked fairly well. But since he hadn't been expecting to have another heat, he'd gotten rid of all of those toys long ago. Even if he ordered one express delivery, the chance that it would arrive in time was minimal. Plus, he wouldn't be able to answer the door in his condition, and he couldn't – or didn't want to – ask Mrs Hudson.

John was the only one left, but there was no way he would ever ask him for help. Never!

Another hot flash together with a strong contraction in his groin sent Sherlock into a state of erotic tension. He planted his feet on the mattress and thrust his pelvis upward, only to find neither resistance nor relief. He angrily slammed his hands down on the bed and tried to sit up in the hope that a change in position would help. But just the opposite was true. The increased pressure on his anus made him gasp for breath even as the fingers of his left hand reached under his t-shirt of their own accord to wrap themselves around his engorged nipple and pinch it hard.

Sherlock sank back down onto his back, writhing on the bed. He grasped his cock, massaging his balls and perineum, then pushed two fingers back inside his body, but there was nothing – absolutely nothing at all – that gave him even the slightest degree of relief.

"_Johnnn_..." he whinged, but John couldn't hear him. John wasn't there. Damnit, why wasn't John there? Wasn't it an alpha's duty to put an end to this infernal torture? Shouldn't his mere presence suffice to quench his desire?

Sherlock didn't know what he was thinking when he fumbled for his phone on the nightstand. He was so impatient and desperate that he dropped it and had to lean awkwardly over the edge of the bed to reach the device. His fingers were trembling as he searched for John's number and made the call.

It rang five times before being answered.

"What do you want?"

_He's angry at me... _Sherlock thought to himself, even as he tried to calm his breathing and form words with his lips at the same time.

"John... I... I... I need..."

John harshly cut off his babbling. "It really doesn't interest me in the slightest what you need, Sherlock."

"Please, I... can't... I can't..."

He could tell John was hesitating. Probably trying to understand what was going on at the other end of the line, and what Sherlock wanted from him. "Speak clearly," he eventually muttered.

"In … heat..." Sherlock gasped in desperation.

He heard John huff in disbelief. "You can't be serious. Are you trying to take the piss with me?"

"No! Please..."

"Forget it, Sherlock. You'll just have to handle it yourself!" he said and rang off.

+++

tbc


	5. Chapter 5

** _Five years ago_ **

John spent most of the time between the bite and the registry appointment in bed, oscillating between unbridled lust – which had caused him to jerk himself nearly raw – and the searing pain of loss, as if part of him had been amputated and he'd been left to live with a mutilation that would never heal. The two emotions fought for the upper hand within him, their borders blurring, until they finally converged in a choking miasma of all-consuming yearning.

He barely remembered staggering home from Kensington, not regaining conscious control over his actions until he found himself kneeling on his bed, in his flat, in the throes of the first of a series of orgasms. He was clutching his jumper to his nose, inhaling Sherlock's scent. His climax hadn't even completely ebbed before a sense of despair set in, making it hard to breathe. He gasped and curled up on the mattress, hugging the jumper until his cock hardened again and the agony began anew.

John knew from textbooks that omegas experienced insatiable lust and physical longing during a heat, especially when their alpha wasn't nearby. But he'd never heard of an alpha being beside themselves with desire, pining over their omega. And anyway, Sherlock hadn't even been in heat yet. On the other hand, John didn't know of any other cases where a newly bonded couple didn't stay together for the period immediately following the bite.

If a similar scenario existed, it would only be found in a romance novel or romcom, or filed under nostalgic literature. Of course, John was familiar with a few of those ridiculous tearjerkers where an alpha and an omega were torn apart by adverse conditions immediately following their bond, during the initial lust-filled moments of the subsequent heat. The omega usually collapsed in misery and pined away, while the alpha did everything in their power to be able to gather their beloved partner up in their arms again. These stories usually had a happy ending: the couple would find their way back together after a series of twists and turns, the antagonist would be brought to justice, and alpha and omega lived happily ever after. The end.

However, John couldn't recall ever hearing a tale in which the couple intentionally parted ways. A cursory internet search and skimming a textbook on alpha and omega biology likewise didn't return any satisfactory answers. And so John continued to wallow in his white-hot desire for his partner.

More than once, he was tempted to toss their entire deal overboard and ring Sherlock. Even though he couldn't be with him and was forbidden from putting his arms around him, from holding and protecting him, John at least wanted to know how he was doing. But he forced himself not to give in to the urge, instead chasing one orgasm after another – without ever achieving any lasting relief.

It wasn't until an unknown number texted him the time and place of the registry appointment that his restless mind and body found a modicum of peace. It was as if the prospect of an imminent reunion with Sherlock had a soothing effect on the raging alpha within him.

*

When Sherlock deleted John's number in front of the Alpha-Omega Registry without so much as batting an eyelash, the disappointment burrowed into John's flesh like a splinter of slate.

Already raw and sore, both physically and emotionally, John had set great hopes in their meeting. He'd even stopped off at a second-hand shop on the way to the appointment to buy a suit jacket; it was at least half a size too big for him, but looked halfway decent. Even if he'd had to scrape together the money for it from funds which had been supposed to last him until the end of the week. The friendly salesperson had given him a comb and some hair gel and suggested he comb his hair back, after John told him why he needed the jacket.

Exhausted from a sleepless night spent in alternating states of misery, arousal, and anticipation, John had nonetheless hoped to make a good impression on the Holmeses. He secretly hoped that Sherlock was feeling something similar, and that the omega might now be ready to allow there to be more to their relationship. John didn't know exactly what he was hoping for; after all, Sherlock had made it abundantly clear he didn't want an alpha in his life... and yet, something in John hoped desperately for a miracle. For something that would heal the painful dichotomy inside him.

The sweet, mild fragrance emanating from the omega had an immediate calming effect on John. It coated his raw nerves like a soothing salve; he could practically feel the pain fading and his skittering pulse slowing down.

John had to muster all of his willpower in order to refrain from wrapping his arms possessively around Sherlock and pulling him close. He wanted to see the wound his bite had left, wanted to caress the mark and touch it with his tongue. He wanted to bury his nose in that pale skin and breathe it in until his soul was completely ensconced in that wonderful omega scent. He wanted to hold Sherlock, to smell him, taste him, kiss him, and protect him from the rest of the world. He wanted to ask and beg; to plead for a chance for the two of them. And yet he did none of that.

Instead, John sat in the tiny office, let the registrar's speech breeze right past him without really paying attention, and forced himself to keep his eyes directed forward rather than at Sherlock. It was no real surprise that the omega didn't want to take John's name. It still stung a little.

Despite everything, John mentally prepared a little speech during the bureaucratic proceedings, which he planned to recite to Sherlock afterwards. But it never came to that. Although Sherlock's brother – the alpha who strangely no longer seemed to pose a threat to John in the wake of their bond – offered to give them a few moments alone together, Sherlock vehemently refused the opportunity.

All the words John had gone to such effort to compose crumbled to dust when Sherlock casually deleted John's number – as if the bond hadn't left any impression on him at all. Nothing in his behaviour indicated that the omega was anywhere close to being as affected by the situation as John.

An iron fist closed around John's heart, loosening its grip only minimally a few days later when John held his long hoped for admission papers to the renowned military academy in Berkshire in his hand.

*

John tried to hate Sherlock. When that didn't work, he tried to forget him. But he didn't have any luck with that either.

Neither the academy's rigorous programme nor John's first overseas assignment which came soon thereafter helped him shake off the pervasive sense of loss. Nor did the distractions from new friends, new comrades-in-arms, new patients or new partners. Nor the random affairs, anonymous sex, or the attempt at another relationship which was doomed from the start.

The emptiness inside him was all-encompassing. Sometimes stronger, sometimes less so. Once in a while it got so overwhelming that John set pen to paper and wrote a letter to London. Then sent it to the one address he knew in Kensington. No answer ever came.

John's logic told him to let sleeping dogs lie. But the alpha in him yanked all of their chains and roared for his omega.

** _Present day_ **

His hands thrust deep in his jacket pockets, John marched across Baker Street to Regent's Park. The strap of his duffle hurt where it dug into his shoulder. Of course, he could move the bag to his healthy right side, but some stubborn part of him enjoyed the pain. Another, malicious part of him whispered that he deserved to be tortured after being so rough with his omega. His behaviour was completely inexcusable, and yet he hadn't been able to help himself. His anger also hadn't dissipated in spite of everything; it was still smouldering within him, flaring up now and then only to recede once more. A continuous cycle, like a wave of red simulating the tides.

He'd crossed half the park before slowing his pace, still refusing to admit to himself that the bloody omega was right and the impairment in his leg was psychosomatic. He gritted his teeth, thinking of the cane which still lay in front of 221B, mocking him by its mere existence. He irritably swiped the image from his mind.

His left arm had lost almost all feeling and his hand was like ice. He finally gave in and shifted the duffle to the other side. He hissed in a breath when he shook his left arm, causing pain like a thousand needles to shoot through the extremity up to his shoulder.

He sighed and sat down on a bench, thumped his bag down beside him, and started to massage his left side with his other hand. As he did so, he let his eyes wander around the generous green lawns. But he took no notice of the lush profusion of flowers carefully laid out along the path, nor the many people strolling past him. Instead, he stared into the distance, absently rubbing his throbbing shoulder.

Various images from the past years flashed past his mind's eye. He saw himself – young, carefree, and naïve – entering the laboratory at St Bart's and meeting Sherlock for the first time. He instantly dismissed the memory of the bite – of the omega in general – as fresh heat simmered in his loins. Instead, he focused on his time in the army and all the different people he'd met there. All the patients he'd been able to save and the countless others for whom it had been too late. He thought of Bill and James. Of his family. Of the tears that had welled up in cornflower blue eyes when they'd broken up because the relationship had been doomed from the start. He'd truly tried, but it wasn't meant to be...

When the green expanse in front of him blurred into a golden desert, John pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes and rested his elbows on his knees to drive away the images. Now that his vision was curtailed, he heard the whine of cruise missiles, the thunder of bombs, the shouts and cries around him. He smelled smoke and blood. And then he heard himself screaming, followed by an all-encompassing pain that made it impossible to breathe. He gasped and felt for his shoulder. He was surprised to find that it was dry, that he wasn't reaching into a mess of blood and bone shards.

John started, as if awakening from a nightmare, and looked around. He was still sitting on the bench in Regent's Park. The last rays of the spring day's sun had disappeared behind the treetops, dunking his surroundings in a milky blue. A glance at his watch told him it was gone eight. He shivered, wrapping his arms around himself and pushing his hands up under his armpits to protect them from the cold that had crept into his body during his stasis, making his already tense extremities stiffen even more.

His stomach grumbled pathetically and John recalled that he hadn't eaten anything aside from a meagre breakfast that morning. He'd been so preoccupied with his rage against Sherlock all afternoon and evening that he hadn't thought to eat. Now that his anger had mostly subsided and been replaced by the old familiar sense of emptiness, he was able to feel physical needs again, such as hunger, thirst, and his full bladder.

The latter was quickly resolved by John nipping behind a large bush. Wiping his hands on his trousers, he slipped back out from behind the foliage, hoping no one had seen him, and sat back down on the bench.

He took out his phone and scrolled through his scanty contacts. After a brief hesitation, he selected his sister's number. It rang for a long time before it connected, and Harry's voice came through thick and distorted. John cancelled the call without speaking. He'd had enough of fighting for the day and didn't have the strength to cross swords with his sister on a bender. He'd rather spend the night on the park bench and hope he simply froze to death.

In the end, John's defiant plan was torpedoed by hunger, his teeth chattering ever more violently, and that same strange restlessness he'd already been feeling for days. He grabbed his duffle bag and left the park through a side gate.

Chilled to the bone, he stumbled into the next best Pret A Manger and ordered a large tea along with two sandwiches, which he voraciously gulped down in just a few bites. However, he burned his mouth on the hot drink, forcing him to drink it more slowly. He curled his lip in disgust. The Earl Grey had been steeped for too long; it tasted bitter and stale.

_Symbolic of my current mood..._

He looked around the empty space, sitting with his back to the wall so that he could keep an eye on the entire shop. It was a characteristic position for an alpha to take, and those tendencies had only been fortified by his time in the army. Constant vigilance and focus. Except that one time when his thoughts had been miles away.

One second of mental absence, one moment of nostalgia when the old woman at the market had tried to sell him a tea blend, and the aromas of honey and wildflowers had caused him to become inattentive. The memories of London, summer rain and dark curls had seduced him into closing his eyes for one wistful moment. The shot that had laid him flat was the end result of a combination of ideology and the nervous fingers of some wannabe tough guy who didn't like seeing foreign soldiers in his village.

John wasn't even man – to say nothing of alpha – enough to die on the battlefield. No, he'd become the victim of a radicalised teenager on his day off.

John wondered – and not for the first time – what he'd done wrong to make life so unfair to him. After being born the only alpha in an underprivileged family, he'd done everything he could to pay for medical school and realise his dream of becoming a soldier. And for what? Not for money or prestige. No, the only thing John had ever wanted was to help people. Now he couldn't even do that anymore.

Fate hadn't been kind to him. Instead, it had presented him twice with the scent of wildflower honey, turned everything topsy-turvy, and irrevocably changed his life.

John regularly cursed his primary* gender. If only he hadn't been born an alpha. Betas had it so much easier. They were free of all the social and biological burdens and conventions, could do whatever their heart desired.

Not even life as an omega was as difficult as an alpha's. What was so bad about letting your partner protect and take care of you? Relinquishing a little responsibility in return for security? And that wasn't even mentioning the transcendental sex that omegas regularly got to engage in. At least if you put any stock in what the porn industry and the bonded alphas John had met in the military had to say; the latter never tired of boasting of their partner's phenomenal heats. Was doing a bit of housework and cooking really such a terrible price to pay to live carefree and satisfied?

John didn't think so. Instead, he was caught in a bloody alpha corset, and couldn't even live up to that. He had nothing to protect or care for. On the contrary, he was a useless good-for-nothing. A cripple. Weak and pathetic.

Sherlock was right. He was nothing more than a poor excuse for an alpha. No omega in the world would want someone like him. Especially not such a proud, independent person as Sherlock. Who was he kidding?

Aside from that, even if in his naivety he'd once envisioned himself in a healthy partnership with Sherlock, these days he wanted nothing more than to wring the vain omega's neck. He didn't even want Sherlock anymore. And he wanted even less to latch on like a parasite in Sherlock's flat. He needed another alternative in the long term.

At the same time, he still needed somewhere to sleep tonight. John sighed, took his phone back out of his jacket and scrolled through his contacts again. Harry was right out as an option. Mrs Hudson might have let him crash on her couch if he hadn't acted like a chest-beating gorilla; anyway, he didn't want to return to Baker Street, which would most likely precipitate another confrontation with Sherlock. Because as much as he regretted his brutish behaviour, the mere thought of the omega rekindled the heat in his loins even as it fanned the flames of his anger.

Plus, he was still hungry. One glance inside his wallet informed him that he could afford another tea and a sandwich, but a night in a hotel was out of the question.

*

John found himself standing on the street shortly before midnight, after the young beta woman on the night shift at Pret kicked the grumpy alpha out of the shop so she could close up. He clung to the flimsy cardboard cup with his last refill of lukewarm tea and wandered aimlessly into the cool April night.

Strangely enough, he scarcely felt the chill that crept into his bones, making his shoulder and fingers stiffen up. Instead, he was filled with a simmering unrest, which eased a bit as he kept in motion.

_Bloody omega..._

John couldn't say why, but his restless thoughts kept returning to Sherlock while his unsettled core yearned to be close to him. What in the world was wrong with him?

*

At some point between one and three in the morning, John's phone rang. It took several attempts before he managed to fish it out of his pocket with his fingers nearly frozen stiff. When he saw Sherlock's name on the screen, he went back and forth on whether to accept the call at all. But in the end, he couldn't override his ever-active protective instinct, and he pushed the little green telephone icon.

"What do you want?"

John listened tensely; he thought he could hear ragged breaths. Had one of Sherlock's absurd experiments gone awry and injured the omega?

"John... I... I... I need..."

It didn't sound like Sherlock was hurt. Just out of breath. Restless like John.

John harshly cut off his babbling. "It really doesn't interest me in the slightest what you need, Sherlock."

"Please, I... can't... I can't..."

_What the hell?_

"Speak clearly," John muttered.

"In … heat..." Sherlock gasped in desperation.

John drew an incredulous breath and let it out again loudly. "You can't be serious. Are you trying to take the piss with me?"

"No! Please..."

_Shit. What do you want from me? What am I supposed to do? I can't..._

All of these thoughts shot through John's head, eventually channelling into the rebuff he gave as his reply: "Forget it, Sherlock. You'll just have to handle it yourself!"

John stared at his phone, dumbfounded, before putting it back into his pocket with trembling fingers. So that's what had made him so restless – practically like a wild animal – over the past few days. The alpha in him had instinctively sensed Sherlock's approaching heat. How had he overlooked that? And what did the omega want from him now? There was no way he could...

_… leave Sherlock alone. My omega needs me._

John set off at a run.

*

John's nose was greeted by a whiff of honey as he passed Speedy's and gasped for breath. He knew the scent didn't come from the bakery, but rather from the flat above it.

He held one hand to the stitch in his side while he fumbled clumsily for his key with the other. It seemed to take forever before his fingers brushed up against the cool metal. He awkwardly fished the key out of his pocket and tried to stop shaking long enough to get it into the keyhole.

As soon as the door sprang open, he was slammed in the face by the delicious scent of omega, nearly knocking him off his feet. It was the fragrance specific to Sherlock: raw honey, wildflowers, and summer rain. Danger. John knew it intimately; after all, he'd been carrying it around with him for years. Only now, it was a hundred times stronger, and had an additional undertone that made John's mouth start to water. It wasn't anything he could put his finger on, other than the pheromone-driven scent of animalistic lust.

Panting now, John pressed one hand against his crotch, feeling his cock rapidly inflate. He tried desperately to get himself under control, taking deep breaths and letting them out slowly. But that only ended up forcing that heavenly scent even deeper into his body.

John dropped his duffle bag to the floor with a soft _plop_. There was no point in trying to fight his very nature. The alpha had arrived and wanted his omega. Now!

John discarded his clothing as he hurried up the stairs. He stumbled when he tried to take off his trousers and shoes at the same time, then heard the _blip_ of individual buttons as he tore them off his shirt. As soon as he reached the corridor outside of Sherlock's bedroom, he pumped his twitching erection a couple of times to reduce the uncomfortable pressure. The scent was so heavy here that it made him feel drowsy, as if he were encased in billows of satin.

John took one final deep breath, then opened the bedroom door without further ado. The sight laid out before him made John's knees turn to jelly. He grabbed onto the wooden door jamb to steady himself, and groaned out loud.

Sherlock was kneeling on the bed with his back to the door and his legs spread. His left hand was holding one arse cheek aside as far as it would go, while three – no, four – of the fingers on his other hand were buried inside his hole, jerking back and forth with disjointed movements.

The air was pregnant with the sweet, cloying scent of omega; John could see the slick on Sherlock's hands and thighs. His back was shiny with perspiration, and his hair, usually arranged in artful curls, lay damp against his skin.

He whimpered: "_Johhnnn_..."

As if that were his cue, John squared his shoulders and moved away from the doorway into the room. He crossed the floor to kneel behind Sherlock on the bed. The firm mattress dipped only slightly under his additional weight.

"Shhh... nice and easy. I'm here now," he said breathily, his voice so low that he barely recognised it.

"John?" Sherlock jerked his head up in surprise and gave John a look of confusion. His normally pale irises had been almost entirely engulfed by black pupils, wide with a combination of keen interest and fear. It seemed as if he weren't entirely certain whether he was looking at a mirage or not.

"You came..." Sherlock whispered between two frantic breaths.

"Of course I came. I'm sorry... I wouldn't have... I didn't know..."

John raised one hand gingerly, intending to give Sherlock's back a soothing caress. He wasn't sure whether the touch was appropriate, though. Instead, he awkwardly traced a line down Sherlock's arm with his fingers.

The omega let out an indeterminate sound that turned into a helpless whine as a contraction shook his body. John watched with fascination as a fresh batch of clear fluid pulsed out of Sherlock's anus, coating his hand and thighs. Sherlock was trying with all his might to push his fingers further past the ring of muscle, but failing miserably.

John licked his dry lips hungrily. He could taste honey. It was time...

"I'm here now. Let me do that," he rumbled. He grasped Sherlock's fingers with a growing confidence, and pulled them out of his body. John stared breathless at the grasping hole, the way it twitched and quivered as if unable to accept the loss, seeking something to fill it again. Another surge of omega essence gushed out, and John made haste to hold his hand underneath in order to catch some of it and spread it on his erection.

The tingling triggered by the lubricating fluid shot through John's body like a bolt of lightning, and he groaned with surprise. He scooted closer to Sherlock, positioning the head of his cock right in front of the sphincter. He ran his hand down his omega's trembling back, trying to soothe him.

"Just stay calm now. Relax. Let it happen. I'll be careful..."

Then he thrust into Sherlock.

+++

tbc

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A small note regarding primary and secondary genders in this story:  
If you've ever read an Alpha/Omega story before, you'll know that many authors refer to male/female as the primary and Alpha/Omega as the secondary gender. Bella and I talked about it for a while and decided that in a society in which A/O is so much in the foreground this cannot be right as the people identify primarily via their Alpha’ness or Omega’ness, so we turned that definition around. So that means: primary gender = alpha, omega or beta; secondary gender = male, female, etc.


	6. Chapter 6

** _Present Day_ **

Sherlock flung the phone away angrily and buried his face in his pillow, which was already damp with perspiration. He kicked his legs out, trying to steady himself, and accidentally pushed the bedspread off the edge of the mattress. Growling in frustration, he jerked his pelvis forward in an effort to get some friction against his cock. But it was like scratching a mosquito bite: it only made the urge to peel his skin off even stronger.

No matter what he did, nothing helped. The feelings of emptiness and abandonment were becoming overwhelming, and he whimpered and sobbed, beside himself. How was he supposed to get through this? What if John never came back? What if he'd decided that such an obstinate omega as Sherlock wasn't worth taking care of? Could anyone blame him? Sherlock would have chastised himself for his behaviour, if he weren't already writhing in agony. How could he ever have thought it was a good idea to bond with an alpha?

It had all sounded so good in theory. Bonded, but free from the animalistic urges that allowed neither unclouded thought nor the freedom to work. Bonded to an alpha who would keep his distance because he was pursuing his own dream, one which society would otherwise have barred him from. It would have been perfect!

Especially since the alternative was an unbonded life under his brother's supervision, with difficult-to-predict heats that would have been triggered whenever he spent too much time in an alpha's presence. A hazard for both body and mind, and one which Sherlock hadn't been willing to expose himself to, genius or not. Sooner or later, Mycroft would have picked out an alpha for him, once he grew tired of watching out for his little omega brother. An alpha who thought he knew what was good for Sherlock... or not.

But now fate had reunited him with the alpha he'd chosen, and his traitorous body apparently wanted to take advantage of the opportunity to reverse the five-year separation. It was as if some foreign creature had escaped the chains of his self-imposed celibacy, and completely derailed his train of thought.

If only he could appease it! The few heats that Sherlock had gone through during puberty had been like walks in the park compared to this one. And even then, he'd cursed his life as an omega more than once.

Sherlock squirmed on the damp sheets and disentangled himself from his twisted t-shirt, only to be seized by another bout of cramps a moment later. He flipped back onto his stomach, as if on autopilot, drew his knees in, and lifted his arse into the air to present to his alpha; yet no one was there to take care of him. He reached back with both hands, spread his buttocks, and felt cool air hitting his opening instead of the heat and presence of another person.

He frantically forced two fingers inside, then three, and finally four. The angle was horrible, not allowing him to get in far enough to massage his prostate and provide him even a modicum of relief. But at least his hand was wide enough to trick his brain into thinking he'd finally been taken and filled, if only for a few precious seconds.

Panting into the pillow, he tried to maintain his precarious balance, but that would have required him to rest on one arm instead of his head. His neck was hurting from the awkward position, adding to his torment.

Somewhere on the fuzzy edge of his awareness, he heard the front door closing, followed by rapid footsteps thundering up the stairs. He was already so far gone, however, that he couldn't make sense of the noises; he'd just barely managed to touch the throbbing bundle of nerves inside himself. A frisson of electricity shot down his back into his legs, making him moan into the sheets.

"_Johhnnn_..."

The mattress behind him dipped and a heat source warmed his bottom. He twisted his head as far as he could to glance out from underneath his tousled curls.

"Shhh... nice and easy. I'm here now," the person said in gravelly tones.

Sherlock couldn't quite believe his eyes: was that really John, naked and aroused? It seemed extremely unlikely that John had come back for him after Sherlock had sent him away with such harsh words.

"John?" he said, as if to chase away the mirage. But it didn't disappear. "You came..." Sherlock whispered between two frantic breaths, as his alpha took in the scene before him.

"_Of course_ I came. I'm sorry... I wouldn't have... I didn't know..."

_Touch me! Please, please... touch me_, Sherlock silently pleaded when he saw John's hand hesitate in mid-air. He whined pitifully when he felt the muscles in his lower abdomen contract again and squeeze out more omega essence a moment later. He turned bright red, well aware that every inch of his body was on display right there in front of John. Sherlock tried as hard as he could to push his fingers further inside to stop up the flow, but it was no use.

"I'm here now. Let me do that," John rumbled and grasped Sherlock's hand, pulling it out of the awkward position then letting go so that Sherlock could hold himself up on his lower arms. "Just stay calm now. Relax. Let it happen. I'll be careful..."

The hands on Sherlock's back were sheer bliss. They ran down his spine to his waist, slid over the curve of his hips and between his splayed thighs, ending up on his arse. John's thumbs rubbed across his dilated anus and pulled it open. He growled darkly once again, making the hairs on the back of Sherlock's neck stand up. Just moments later, Sherlock felt the red-hot tip of a cock on his hole, then the ring of muscle greedily closing around it.

He inhaled sharply in surprise when John thrust into him with a single smooth motion, filling him up completely. He felt John's swollen testicles and short pubic hair against his arse, John's fingers digging mercilessly into his hips, as if to prevent Sherlock from moving so much as an inch away from his alpha, and then John moaned out loud, both pleasure and urgency in the tone, and Sherlock responded in kind at the sudden overstimulation of his most sensitive nerve endings.

Sherlock's right hand darted back and dug into John's thigh, not sure whether to hold him back or pull him closer. The air froze in his lungs as if he'd been slugged in the solar plexus. He was so full, stretched to the limit, barely able to perceive anything other than the indescribable sensation that seemed to permeate every fibre of his being.

John stroked the hand on his thigh, caressing the bony knuckles and the spaces in between that were moist with omega essence. "It's okay," he whispered breathlessly. "I've got you. Just let me. We both need it." He rolled his hips, slipped just a few millimetres out of Sherlock, only to sink back in as deep as possible with a choked-off curse.

Sherlock lost all sense of space and time. He instinctively went along with the rocking motion that drove John's erection over and over again across his prostate, sending shivering waves through his nervous system. The sheet between his clenched fingers was damp and smelled like both of them. It was the only thing keeping him grounded as John's thrusts gained momentum and the rhythmic slapping of skin against skin echoed off the walls.

"God, you're so... _tight!_ Ah... fuck!" John growled, panting into Sherlock's sweat-soaked back.

Sherlock gasped in surprise when John grabbed his knees and pulled them back, forcing Sherlock's legs straight and bringing him into position flat on his stomach. John had slipped out whilst executing the manoeuvre, and now pushed Sherlock's legs apart with his knees, planted his hands on either side of Sherlock, and slammed into him again hard.

"John!" Sherlock tried to angle his hips up to accommodate his alpha better, but kept getting pushed back down onto the mattress with every relentless thrust. The all-consuming heat of arousal inside him was converging into a concentrated bundle in his abdomen, making him sob uncontrollably. He needed to come, was desperate for the climax that was almost close enough to touch.

"_Oh_... oh fff – " John slowed down slightly, only to pick up the pace again a moment later. But it was different this time. Sherlock was acutely aware of the mass of spongy tissue at the base of John's penis, the characteristic alpha knot, slowly pushing inside him. He'd only seen pictures, never in the flesh – and certainly never felt one before. There was a sharp contraction inside him, followed closely by another surge of omega essence dribbling out of him, coating his alpha's cock and knot.

Sherlock's entire focus narrowed to the few square centimetres of his most intimate area. His body already felt overfull, so he was hypersensitive to being opened even further by the knot until it finally surmounted the muscle ring – already stretched to the breaking point – and settled deep inside. Both Sherlock and John moaned in unison as the climax broke over them like a monstrous wave, virtually fusing them to each other.

Sherlock's heart was racing, the air burning in his lungs as if he'd just run a marathon, and every fibre of his body was signalling overexertion and exhaustion. Yet at the same time, he felt more complete than he ever had in his life. Complete and unified with his other half.

John had wrapped both arms around him with his forehead resting against the back of Sherlock's neck. His hot breath singed Sherlock's damp skin, while his knot pulsed in time with their synchronised heartbeats.

Sherlock let himself be shifted onto his left side, utterly drained by the impressions of the last few minutes, so that they were spooned front-to-back. For the first time in days, he felt at peace and in balance, no longer plagued by the constant urge for _something_ that he couldn't even begin to name.

And yet doubts crept in almost immediately. Was he really no better than every other bloody omega on this godforsaken planet? The victim of some arbitrary biological drive that bound him to a thick-headed alpha whom he didn't even particularly like?

Sherlock huffed and pulled his hands back as soon as he realised he was rubbing John's arms where they rested across his chest. His subconscious had once again taken over, making him do things he didn't even want.

"Everything okay?" John asked from behind him. He sounded so tender and caring that Sherlock broke out in goose pimples.

"Yes... no... I don't know," Sherlock muttered, forcing his hands to remain motionless on the bed. "It's as if... I don't seem to be able to stop my hands from touching you."

"Mhm," John rumbled, planting a kiss on Sherlock's shoulder. "Same here. It's just instinct. Biology."

"I'm well aware of that!" Sherlock rolled his eyes, annoyed. Why did alphas always have the need to state the obvious when speaking with an omega?

John let out an irritated sigh and loosened his hold slightly. "Why don't you just … let it happen. I don't mind. And I'm not getting any ideas, don't worry. Try to sleep now. It's probably going to take a good while before we can separate."

Sherlock was indeed very tired. He wanted nothing more than to curl up under the comforter and blank out the world around him, but the cover was still on the floor next to the bed and the way he was joined to John didn't leave him any choice but to lie as still as possible. He folded his arms over his chest and closed his eyes, hoping he'd fall asleep soon and be able to put this whole nightmare far behind him.

*

Sherlock woke a short while later to gentle kisses on his shoulder and neck. It took all of his willpower to stop himself from sighing happily and cuddling up closer to the warm body behind him. Instead, he tossed a venomous look over his shoulder and glared at John.

"What the hell are you doing?!"

John flinched at being caught red-handed, but promptly shook off his discomfort and continued to brush his lips over Sherlock's skin. He kissed the prominent scar that had formed a few days after the bite five years ago, tracing the raised silver marks with his tongue.

A pleasant shiver ran through Sherlock, making his nipples harden and tickling his balls. He blinked frantically several times to rid himself of the feeling, but it lingered like a stubborn stain.

"Biology," John whispered between two kisses, tightening his embrace around Sherlock's body.

Sherlock huffed with a combination of contempt and thinly veiled arousal, and tried to turn away. As he did so, he realised that the knot had already shrunk, and John's cock slipped out of him easily – along with a melange of omega lubrication and alpha semen, which promptly soaked into the sheets. Nauseated at the sense of loss, he pushed John away without looking at him and rolled out of bed to flee into the en suite bathroom.

He washed as much of the sticky residue away as he could without getting into the shower, all the while fighting the instinct to return to his alpha as fast as possible.

Of course he was well aware that they were nowhere near the end of the heat, and that he'd be begging to feel John inside him again sooner or later. But he wanted to have some peace and distance between them, at least for a few minutes, in which to collect himself.

"Sherlock?" John's voice penetrated the half-closed bathroom door, both a curse and promise; like invisible fingers reaching for him, lulling him into complacency and trying to draw him back in.

"Give me... a minute or so at least!" Sherlock snapped and turned on the tap. He slipped into the dressing gown hanging on the back of the door, tied the sash, and bent over the sink to splash cold water on his face and rub it on the back of his neck.

He swore silently, leaned his hands on the basin, and stared at his wet face in the mirror. The overworked muscles of his arms and legs quivered slightly, and the urge to return to the bedroom became stronger and stronger. It pulled at him like an oversized magnet until he couldn't hold himself back any longer. He quickly turned off the tap and dried off.

He forbade himself to waste any more brainpower on the horrible injustice of his existence and hurried to the door, only to find that John was no longer in the bed. Overcome by a sudden panic, Sherlock whirled around and went into the kitchen. But John wasn't there either. The glass door leading into the living room was pulled almost all the way shut, leaving just a small crack, but his nose would have told him even if it had been closed all the way that his alpha was on the other side.

Relief flooded his system and his heart skipped a beat when he saw John sitting in the armchair in front of the fireplace – the very one he'd chosen as his favourite spot shortly after he'd moved in. He was wearing one of Sherlock's dressing gowns and held a glass of water in one hand, taking small sips. Upon hearing the rattle of the sliding door, he set the glass down and turned toward Sherlock, a hint of curiosity and concern in his sea-blue eyes.

"Everything o—" Before John could finish the question, Sherlock flung himself backwards over the arm of the chair and landed in John's lap. John caught him on instinct, pulling him in close so that Sherlock couldn't slide off his legs. "—kay...?"

Without a second's hesitation, Sherlock pushed his nose into John's neck and inhaled deeply. John's own special scent washed over his senses, settling like a soothing balsam over his overwrought nerves.

"Shut up!" Sherlock demanded before John could question his odd behaviour.

"I didn't even—"

"You're thinking! I can hear you thinking and it's annoying!" He nestled in even closer in the curve of John's neck and wrapped his arms around John's shoulders. "I thought you'd left again for a moment..." he whispered, refusing to accept how much he liked it when John drew him in even closer to his body.

** _Four years and three months ago_ **

Sherlock was exhausted right down to his bones. He couldn't explain why this kept happening. Several times a week, he felt as if he'd hiked for miles, carrying heavy weights, even though he'd done nothing of the sort.

It had begun suddenly, and kept happening at more or less lengthy intervals. When he realised that it wasn't getting better, he went to the doctor to get checked out. But everything appeared to be normal. The beta doctor ushered him into her consultation room after completing the examination, and given him a sceptical look.

"I'm curious, Mr Holmes, why you haven't seen an omega doctor? Don't you think a specialist would better be able to respond to your … _particular_ needs?" she inquired. Despite the perfectly friendly nature of her tone, the words fanned the flames of a deep-seated anger inside Sherlock.

"Why ever should I?! I'm a human being, just like anyone else!"

The doctor didn't so much as bat an eyelash at the minor outburst, instead scribbling her signature on a referral slip, which she pushed across the table toward Sherlock. "You must understand, we simply aren't equipped to help you here, Mr Holmes."

"And you need to understand that your incompetence is an insult to your profession, Dr Wat– Whittaker!" Sherlock snatched up the paper with a fierce scowl and stuffed it haphazardly into his trouser pocket before leaving the clinic.

A few days later, he was sitting in Mike Stamford's waiting room; Mike was also a beta, but had practised omega medicine for years now. Sherlock had avoided seeing him because he was the one who had introduced Sherlock and John. It would have been incredibly unpleasant for him to explain the arrangement they'd made.

"Something's wrong with me, Mike. I've been having bouts of exhaustion for weeks now without any obvious reason..." Sherlock summarised briefly while Mike went over the results of the examination from the last doctor.

"Hm... the blood tests all look good, but your hormones are pretty out of whack. It's possible for that to be expressed through feelings of tiredness and fatigue," Mike explained. He reached for his stethoscope as he got up. "Take off that shirt, if you would, and sit up on the exam table." When Mike noticed Sherlock's hesitation and widened eyes, he shrugged apologetically. "Don't worry, it's nothing I haven't seen a thousand times before. Just set your mind at ease."

Sherlock stood, anything but at ease, and started to unbutton his shirt as he approached the exam table. He sat on it with his back to Mike. He had no idea whether John and Mike still kept in touch; whether they'd talked about the bond, and whether whatever results emerged today would be passed on to the alpha.

Nervously, Sherlock slipped the shirt off, his heart beating frantically. This was the first time he'd let anyone see his neck with the bite on it. He listened anxiously to Mike's every movement, every breath, every rustle of cloth. He flinched when the barely warmed diaphragm of the stethoscope came into contact with his back, shakily exhaling the breath he'd been holding in his lungs for far too long.

"Mhm, mhm... everything's in tip-top shape," Mike said, setting the stethoscope aside. Warm fingers closed around Sherlock's right bicep and rotated his shoulder joint, carefully palpating the trapezius before brushing the oval scar John had left there.

"Don't!" Sherlock blurted out before he was able to hold the word back.

"Oh, sorry. Does it still hurt?"

Sherlock pulled his shirt back on without turning around to Mike, and hastily buttoned it up. He felt shame heating his cheeks, but shook his head and slid off the exam table.

"Have you... er... " Mike cleared his throat discreetly before starting again: "You and John?"

Sherlock nodded curtly, his back still turned.

"So you formed a bond in order for him to attend the military academy, and now..."

"It's fine. Everything's just as it should be, believe me. Neither of us was interested in becoming better acquainted with each other. We simply wanted to ensure our freedom as individuals without being subjected to the laws of nature. It's all fine," Sherlock assured him as he put on his overcoat.

"Well, I don't want to pretend I know more about alphas and omegas than the two of you, but... if there's one thing I've learned in the course of my work as a physician, it's that nature will always find a way. You've chosen the path of a physical connection – and there's more than one theory that says a bond goes beyond the physical, and may even involve the soul in some rare instances."

Sherlock snorted out a laugh and shook his head incredulously. "You can't honestly be serious! You're a man of science, speaking of such things as the soul? The soul is nothing more than an absurd construct arising from theistic superstition and mystery traditions! What does any of that have to do with me?"

Mike lifted his fleshy hands in a conciliatory gesture. "My only intention was to point out that not everything can be explained through medicine. At least not yet. I only know of a handful of cases in which alphas and omegas felt a connection to their partner when they were separated. Those were usually in particularly stressful or emotional situations, which were felt as a sort of echo by the partner who wasn't actually involved. Aside from that, many omegas are more sensitive than alphas anyway, and develop something like a sixth sense for things that affect their partner."

"Is that supposed to mean that I might be feeling what John feels?" Sherlock asked in disbelief.

Mike nodded slowly. "That's entirely possible, despite it being so rare."

"That's utter nonsense!" Sherlock hissed, and tore open the door to the consultation room in order to get as far away as possible.

*

A couple of days later, Sherlock awoke from a restless sleep to discover, to his surprise, that he was lying on top of his balled-up blanket, thrusting rhythmically into the plump mound of cloth. His cock was so stiff it was almost painful, his nipples hard and sensitive. His head was filled with an impenetrable fog of lust that made the fire in his loins burn with an even brighter intensity. He moaned hoarsely as he wrapped his fingers around his wet cock head, and he came almost immediately.

The pleasant tingling had just receded when his fatigued brain realised what the meaning was of what had just happened.

"Oh, you bloody bastard!"

+++

tbc


	7. Chapter 7

** _Four years and three months ago_ **

John snapped his hips forward one last time, thrusting into the calloused hand that was stimulating him so masterfully. His hoarse cry as he climaxed was muffled by the brazen tongue plundering his mouth. John picked up the pace of his own hand, rubbing his thumb one last time across the damp glans it held. The other man let out a bit-off curse and moaned softly as his orgasm washed over him as well.

John let go of the deflating penis and turned away. A dull thud sounded as the back of his head hit the wood of the barracks wall. He tried to get his frantic breathing under control and stay quiet, as he had very little interest in being found by one of his fellow soldiers with his pants down. Although to be sure, he wouldn't be the first person to seek out the shelter of the little camp hut for a quickie.

The man beside him chuckled under his breath as they straightened out their clothing.

"That was good, Captain..."

"You can say that again," John said with a smirk.

Their eyes met, and they shared a bashful smile, until it turned bitter and forced. The other soldier sighed and rested one hand on the back of John's neck, pulling him in until their foreheads touched. They stood like that for the space of a few heartbeats until the man pulled away and dropped a firm kiss on John's lips.

"Take care of yourself..."

"You too."

John watched with a sense of melancholy as the man walked briskly away. John hadn't been in Afghanistan long before meeting Eric. They'd hit it off straightaway, and the good-humoured soldier had eased John's adjustment to life on the front. There weren't any deep, meaningful emotions involved, but they joked, teased and tormented each other until camaraderie turned into flirting. The friendly needling, winks and unintentional-on purpose touches probably would have gone on forever in the same way if Eric hadn't found out three days ago that he'd be transferred today to continue his tour at another base five hundred kilometres further west.

And so they'd seized their only chance and snuck out behind the barracks early in the morning to share their first and last moment of intimacy. There was no prospect of a shared future for them, but it still pained John to think that he'd probably seen his friend for the last time today. There was a silent agreement not to stay in contact. Too many of their compatriots had lost friends in this unspeakable war. It was easier this way: not to wonder or second-guess but just to assume the other bloke was doing fine – wherever he was.

John wondered whether Eric's transfer was taking more of an emotional toll on him than he'd thought. What other explanation could there be for the fact that his orgasm had felt strangely shallow and incomplete? Shouldn't a climax brought about by someone else's hand rather than his own be more exciting? Was this whole situation and the unfamiliar surroundings having more of an effect on him than it seemed?

He missed London. London and...

John pushed himself back from the splintered wood with one final sigh. There was no point in wallowing. Instead, he kicked around some sand with his boot to cover up the damp spots their spunk had left on the ground, and headed for the canteen to see about getting some breakfast.

*

John quickly became accustomed to the daily routine of life in an army camp. He spent his days in the field hospital, caring for injured soldiers and locals who had taken ill. It was strenuous work, and sapped his energy. But it was also varied and satisfying. Much more than his foundation training at the hospital had been.

What little free time he had, he spent with the other soldiers in his unit. He'd been fascinated to discover that the camp was usually divided along gender lines between alphas and betas. Eric had been the only beta John had established a friendly relationship with. But now he immersed himself in the alpha group, who it was fairly obvious had the say of what went on at the base.

John had never been around so many alphas at the same time before. In his childhood and adolescence, there had always been a mix of alphas, betas, and a few omegas around. It wasn't until later, after puberty and sexual maturity, that the alphas and betas had been separated from the omegas and sent to different schools. Still, most of his friends had been betas – not to mention his own family. Now John was confronted with the phenomenon of gender-specific packs.

The loud and overbearing alpha posturing had irritated John at first, but now he enjoyed being amongst others like himself, learning from them about the ways of nature that he had only seen before on television and in books due to the lack of role models in his own family. At the same time, he also understood now why only bonded alphas were allowed in the military. Given the territorial conduct, hot-headed stubbornness, and aggressive behaviour that went hand-in-hand with alphas – and which they were especially prone to displaying amongst each other – it was unthinkable what might happen if an omega happened upon the pack. Unbonded alphas would clash and tear each other's throats out to gain the upper hand. On the other hand, being alphas made them superior soldiers. Courageous, strong, and fearless.

John liked life around the camp, the adventure, and his mates. Especially once he selected his commanding officer to be his mentor, and the man had taken John under his wing. They spent countless hours in the officer's tent, where Major Sholto told John all about his life, the war, and his Scottish homeland.

John also developed a fast friendship with one of the nurses. Wilhelmina Murray – Bill for short – never tired of telling John about her beautiful omega. Every evening, she would pull a creased photograph out of her breast pocket, her chest swelling with pride, and gaze at it with a besotted expression.

"Isn't she utterly, completely beautiful, Captain?" she said every time.

And every time, John answered honestly that the young woman with the untamed curls tumbling to her hips and a button nose with a saucy, upturned tip, was utterly and completely beautiful.

And every time as well, John ignored the hint of envy that gnawed at him, along with the yearning he felt whenever his saw his pining comrade. After all, there was no reason to be melancholy. John was at peace with his life and the turn it had taken since that fateful meeting in the laboratory of St Bart's. Didn't he have everything he'd ever wanted now?

His job was fulfilling – in fact it was more a calling than a career. He was useful, he had a mission. He could save lives! Plus, he was popular with the other alphas, and so desired by the betas who all but came to blows over the chance to get better acquainted with his alpha cock that it didn't take long before his mates nicknamed him "Three Continents Watson".

And he was going to live up to that nickname today. At least if everything went according to the plans of the alpha pack, who had picked out a very special establishment to celebrate his birthday.

** _Present day_ **

John gazed reverently at the figure sleeping in his arms. He didn't dare to caress Sherlock again, even though his fingers were itching to do so, to run across his soft omega skin or plunge into his dark curls – not now that the initial passion of the heat had faded. Sherlock had reacted extremely negatively to John's instinctive displays of affection, taking the first chance he got to flee. Even though the omega had had the same instinct after they'd copulated, seeking contact and reaching for John's arm over and over again to stroke it.

Of course John was well aware that it was nothing more than their churning hormones which were responsible for these tender gestures and behaviours to seek out physical contact. It was in their nature. He didn't make anything more of it. Nor of Sherlock's cuddly mood nor the licentiousness of the creature John had ravished with all the passion he possessed just a short while ago. The mere thought of the phenomenal first phase of the heat triggered an urgent tightening in his loins.

Nothing – absolutely nothing at all – could have prepared John for this experience. No bragging from his alpha mates, no pornographic material, and certainly not any textbook. Not that he'd ever reckoned with spending a heat with his omega. He'd also never had so much as an inkling that such animalistic lust could even exist, much less of the all-consuming intensity of the sex act itself. Completely mesmerised by Sherlock's exquisite fragrance, the slick slide in and out of his tight, hot body, and the refreshing moisture of his omega essence, John had very nearly missed the moment when his knot had inflated for the very first time. It wasn't until he'd become aware of a throbbing pressure at the base of his penis that he'd looked down at his crotch, presenting him with an image and a feeling that he would forever cherish like a priceless treasure.

Sherlock's shiny wet hole, stretching ever further around his burgeoning knot. A fresh surge of slick – John couldn't even admit to himself how much he wanted to taste that nectar – easing penetration. The final surmounting of the ultimate frontier. Body on body. Alpha and omega as profoundly connected as nature intended and made possible. Locked into his counterpart, John had reached a climax whose intensity was unlike anything he'd ever experienced before. Sherlock, keening beneath him like a wild animal, had seemed to fare no differently.

John would have liked nothing more than to know what it had felt like for Sherlock, and what he thought of their union. Had it also been the most earth-shattering, the rawest sex he'd ever had in his life? Did he think the second round would proceed in a similarly fervent manner? Had John been too rough, or had he stimulated Sherlock in just the right way? And would the next phase of the heat begin soon?

"Stop thinking," came a sleepy murmur beside his neck.

Sherlock stretched as far as he could whilst in John's lap, and scratched his stomach, which emitted an audible rumble. He looked up in surprise.

"I'm _hungry_!"

"And no wonder," John laughed, amused at Sherlock's affronted tone.

"But I just ate last night. How can I be hungry again already?"

"Comes from the fantastic sex we just had that used up all your energy," John teased him indulgently.

Sherlock gave John an assessing look. "Was it? Fantastic?"

"I... well.. yes! Don't you think?"

It was like being sucker punched. Was John not even alpha enough for Sherlock to satisfy him during a heat?

"Hm..." Sherlock slid off John's lap and walked into the kitchen.

Nonplussed, John also got up from the armchair and followed Sherlock into the other room. He stopped in the doorway and watched Sherlock take plates out of the cupboard. John felt an inexplicable urge to go over and take the knife out of Sherlock’s hand which he was using to cut into the lasagna.

"Let me do that."

"I can do it myself!" Sherlock grumbled, but let John take over.

John shovelled the pasta dish onto the prepared plates, then put them one after the other into the microwave. When the appliance signalled with a _ding_ that the first serving was warm, John handed the plate to Sherlock, who began to eat with gusto. When his lasagna was warmed up too, John, feeling more ravenous than ever, cut off a large bite and shoved it into his mouth. The delicious combination of ground meat, pasta, and melted cheese exploded on his taste buds, making him sigh with bliss.

"Mrs Hudson is truly an angel. I should apologise to her for the way I've acted," John murmured between two bites.

Sherlock grunted his agreement. "Yes, you should. You acted like an absolute arse."

"Wasn't exactly my fault, was it?"

Sherlock lifted one eyebrow sceptically and gave John a stern look. "Are you implying it's my fault that you nearly bit my landlady's head off?"

"If you just wouldn't let this place turn into a pigsty and take your omega duties a little bit—"

John didn't get any further because Sherlock slammed down his fist on the table with a bang. The dishes along with all the glassware Sherlock used for his ominous experiments protested with a clatter.

"I don't have any _duties_. Not because of my gender, and most certainly not towards you. I'm not that kind of omega!"

John swallowed the last mouthful of his lasagna and coughed out a humourless laugh.

"You were _that_ kind of omega back there. Like a poster boy. Writhing on the bed like a _tart_, just gagging for it."

"You bloody bastard..."

Sherlock stood up so abruptly that his chair fell to the ground with a crash. John leapt to his feet as well and grabbed Sherlock's bicep when he started to leave the room. He pushed Sherlock up against the closest wall, placed his hands to either side of Sherlock's head, and glared furiously at the omega. Sherlock's cheeks immediately drained of colour, and John watched the complex play of emotions across his face with fascination.

"Didn't you though? You were practically drooling for it. For my cock, for my knot... You think you're above all that, but you're nothing more than a bog-standard omega. And whether you like it or not: _I_ am your alpha."

Keeping a close eye on Sherlock, John took his hands off the wall and two steps back. Sherlock whimpered as if he'd been punched in the gut. He leaned forward and covered his stomach with his hands. John immediately regretted his harsh words. Even though the omega and his big mouth kept making him see red.

"John..."

"Sherlock's, I'm –"

"It's starting again..."

It was only now that John noticed the sweet scent hanging heavy in the room. Blood rushed through his veins, rapidly collecting in his groin. The alpha in him howled with pleasure and surged forward when the exquisite omega aroma reached his synapses. At the same time, Sherlock's unease was palpably growing. But so was his need.

John's mouth started to water when he saw the speed with which Sherlock took off his dressing gown, letting it drop carelessly to the floor as if he could no longer stand the sensation of the material against his skin. He reached behind himself with one hand, staring in disgust at the dampness on his fingers when he held them up in front of him.

"Can we just get it over with and do it right here?" Sherlock asked between gritted teeth.

John shook his head, chuckling hoarsely. "You're crazy!"

He'd automatically reached for his erection, and now lazily stroked it as his eyes wandered openly over Sherlock's nude body. He hadn't really been able to get a good long look at his omega before, but now he virtually inhaled the tableau before him. The creamy white skin, the rosy nipples that had contracted to tiny knobs, the slim omega cock standing at attention and pointing at John.

Sherlock was truly a magnificent specimen.

John licked his dry lips, stretching them into a grin of amusement when he noticed Sherlock blushing under his assessing eyes and pursing his lips defiantly.

"Am I supposed to beg? Is that what you want? Like a tart who's gagging for it? Please, oh please, you big strong alpha. Give me your huge dick? Stuff me up with your knot?"

Despite the sarcasm dripping from Sherlock's words, they didn't miss their mark. John growled hungrily and stepped closer to Sherlock.

"No, you idiot..."

"Then what? John, then what am – "

The rest of his sentence was swallowed up by a shriek of surprise when John bent his knees to dip down, placed both hands around Sherlock's waist, lifted him up and, without further ado, slung him over his shoulder. He took a moment to regain his balance, then strode toward the bedroom with the flailing omega.

"John, what – "

"Shut up!"

With Sherlock's rear end so close to John's face, the scent of omega essence was even more intoxicating than before.

"John, your shoulder..."

Following a sudden impulse, John gave Sherlock a brief but powerful nip in the crease of his hip, which caused the latter to exclaim in shock.

"I told you to shut up!"

John kicked open the half-open bedroom door with one foot, entered the room, and dropped Sherlock unceremoniously onto the bed. The springs protested loudly.

Sherlock gasped at the shock of the landing, but seemed to be immediately distracted by John taking off his own dressing gown and letting it fall to the floor behind him. The omega watched with wide eyes as John wrapped his hand again around his steely cock, pumping it up and down with bold strokes. He swiped his thumb across the glans, spreading the fluid welling up there. He watched as Sherlock swallowed hard.

John barely recognised himself anymore. He didn't usually put on such a show. But something made him want to be as desirable as possible to his omega. He wasn't even ashamed of the ugly, saucer-sized scar on his shoulder at the moment. Instead, the poorly healed flesh stood as a sign of his unbroken strength.

John approached the bed with a predatory grin and knelt on the mattress. He closed the minimal distance still separating him from Sherlock, and ended up between his spread thighs.

He dragged his nose over the tender skin of Sherlock's neck, inhaling the intoxicating scent there before wandering further upwards to his earlobe, which he drew in between his teeth.

"You may not want to be an omega," John rumbled darkly, "but I'm going to show you what kind of alpha I am."

It was deeply satisfying to feel the omega shiver and hear the soft whimper. John scooted back so he could grasp Sherlock by the knees and skilfully turn him onto his stomach. He lifted Sherlock's pelvis and placed one hand on each round buttock. Then he growled as he pulled them apart to reveal the gleaming, reddened anus which was already winking greedily.

"You're already all wet again for me..."

"John... _ah_..."

John spread the pulsating ring of muscle with both thumbs, ran around the rim, and finally inserted the tip of one digit. The subsequent wail that came from Sherlock shot straight to John's heart. It almost sounded like a cry of pain, but he knew better.

"Yeah... you're so wet..." He put his thumb into his mouth and licked the slick off. Sweet as nectar. Ambrosia. "Delicious…"

"_Hghnn_..."

"You want it, don't you?"

John sat up and positioned his rock-hard cock in front of Sherlock's hole.

"Say you want it, Sherlock!" the alpha commanded in a gravelly voice.

"Yes! _Yes_, I want it! Please... give me... _ahhhh_..."

Without further ado, John plunged into Sherlock, letting out a loud moan at the same time. The wet heat of the tight channel was making him crazy. He grabbed hold of Sherlock's pelvis with his left hand, whilst with his right he grasped the inside of Sherlock's knee and lifted his leg into the air so it stuck out at a right angle. Gratified, he sank a few millimetres further into the red-hot body in front of him. He only gave them a brief moment to get used to the sensation before starting to hammer into his omega with long, deep thrusts.

John let his groans sound unabashedly throughout the room as he picked up the pace. Sherlock sighed and gasped along with him. He quivered and shook, adjusting his own motions to the tempo set by John as well as he could from his position.

John let go of Sherlock's leg so that Sherlock could put both knees down on the mattress again, and buried his free hand in Sherlock's untamed curls. He forced Sherlock to turn his head to one side so that John could see the omega's profile.

"Next time I want to see your face."

The smouldering look that Sherlock tossed over his shoulder zinged down John's spine like a tongue of fire. Sherlock was breath-taking. His eyes half-lidded, his lips half-open, his tongue peeping out over and over to moisten them. A few stray strands of hair stuck to his damp forehead, and his cheeks were aglow.

"You're incredible," John whispered before he could hold back the statement.

"_Ahhh_..."

A fresh gush of the omega's natural lubricant ran out beside John's cock, soaking his pubic hair. He took his hand off Sherlock's hip and dipped his thumb into the warm excretion, licked it off, and wet it again.

"Do you actually know how good you taste? Like honey and a sea of wildflowers. Like danger. Are you dangerous, Sherlock?"

"_Hgnnn_..."

John grasped Sherlock more firmly by the hair and pulled his head back, stretching his neck and bending his back into a concave curve, so he could shove his thumb, covered with slick, into Sherlock's mouth. He watched with lascivious intent as Sherlock's plump lips stretched around his digit and sucked with abandon.

He started thrusting even faster, and the next time Sherlock's tongue wrapped around the pad of his thumb, he felt pressure around the base of his penis as his knot began to swell.

"Oh, yeah... yes... _fuck_..." he said, his voice dark and low, and Sherlock let out a guttural moan as well.

He pounded furiously into the willing omega, but his knot couldn't get past that final natural barrier this time.

"Up, come here..."

John grabbed Sherlock harder by his hair and drew him up until his back rested against John's chest.

"John... please... _please_..." Sherlock gasped, reaching behind himself to spread his cheeks and make it easier for John to get in deeper.

"Open up."

John's free hand wandered over Sherlock's torso to his nipples, plucked them, then wrapped around the omega's damp cock. He licked the salt off Sherlock's skin, scraping his teeth across the prominent scar on the back of his neck.

"Open up for me! Now!"

With one final push, John pushed his throbbing knot through Sherlock's sphincter muscle and came. And _came_. His orgasm rolled through him, making his whole body break out in gooseflesh as he spilled into the omega over and over again. Distantly, he heard someone shouting. It might have been him, or it might have been Sherlock. His fingers were covered in hot semen. The contractions in Sherlock's anus squeezed another batch of ejaculate out of John, making him groan deep in his throat. Stars danced before his eyes. His breath seared his lungs.

After the crashing wave of their shared climax had ebbed, John wrestled them onto their sides. They lay close enough to the edge of the bed that Sherlock was able to reach the cover where it lay on the floor, and awkwardly spread it over them.

John pulled the omega in close. He rubbed Sherlock's nape with his nose and dropped a feather-light kiss just above the scar. Let Sherlock protest if he wanted: John wasn't ready to relinquish the intimacy and afterglow of their warm cocoon. But Sherlock merely let out a satisfied sigh and caressed John's arm.

He didn't want to ask; he should have more pride than that. Still, the question burned on the tip of his tongue, and so he whispered into the warmth at Sherlock's back: "Was it better this time?"

"Hm?" Sherlock said sleepily.

"This round. Was it better, seeing as the first one wasn't exactly fantastic for you?"

To John's surprised, Sherlock started to laugh. The motion of his body carried over to John's cock, which was still buried, half-hard, inside the omega. He hissed and put one hand on Sherlock's hip to stop the quivering.

"Nice you find it so funny," he growled, insulted. He tried to twist his body away, but was only able to manage a distance of a few centimetres due to his knot.

Sherlock nestled up to John's chest again, as if he wasn't willing to accept the loss of proximity, and intertwined John's fingers with his. He sighed again, the sound expressing both contentment and displeasure this time.

"You misunderstood me before. And naturally, you jumped to the wrong conclusions without thinking first..."

"What's that supposed to mean?" John asked, irritated, even as he absently licked Sherlock's scar.

"That you're an idiot... typical alpha."

"Sherlock..." John warned him.

"It was fantastic. This time, and the first time too. I didn't know if it would be the same every time. Now I do. It's good... very good … but different each time. I simply didn't have anything to compare it with."

"What do you mean?" John asked as he suckled on the skin at Sherlock's nape, nibbling it lightly. "Because it was the first time you had sex during a heat with me?"

"No." Sherlock sighed happily from John's ministrations. "Because it was the first time I've had sex, full stop. You've deflowered me."

"The first... deflower... _oh, God_..."

John gasped and held Sherlock tight as he was shaken by another orgasm.

+++

tbc


	8. Chapter 8

** _Present day_ **

During the seconds it took for John to collect himself again, Sherlock bit his bottom lip and closed his eyes anxiously. He was hyperaware of John's cock and knot twitching inside him as his own body buzzed with euphoria. He grasped John's hand where it stroked continuously over his chest and stomach, and held it fast.

His scalp tingled in the spots where his sensitive follicles were still softly complaining. That sensation alone was enough to send Sherlock back a few minutes in time and conjure back up the overwhelming feelings which had flooded his body when John grabbed him so roughly and pounded into him over and over again.

His muscles tensed up automatically, clutching the knot a little harder and producing a low moan from behind him. John intensified his grip and leaned his forehead against the back of Sherlock's neck.

"Is that true?" he sighed out breathlessly, inhaling the scent of the damp skin there. "That was your first time?"

Sherlock nodded curtly, glancing over his shoulder to gauge John's reaction. "Is that news to you? Who else should I have had sex with? With some random passing alpha who might have forced me to bond with him? Or a beta who never would have been able to endure an omega heat? Really now..."

John pinched a bit of Sherlock's skin between his teeth and took a deep breath before continuing. "But... that can't possibly have been your first heat ever... can it?"

"Don't be an idiot, John! Of course that wasn't the first. After all, I was already twenty-three when we met at Bart's. But heats during puberty are generally lighter and not nearly so... intense."

"You were well out of puberty by the time you were twenty-three..." John pointed out dubiously.

"That's true, but I'd never been exposed to unbonded alphas for any length of time, so my heats never got stronger. I would have done anything to avoid getting into a situation where I might lose control over myself. That's why I kept such a close eye on my cycle and steered clear of alphas as soon as I sensed it might be coming on again. The sudden onset this time took me by surprise."

"But... how did you get through those heats you had?" John asked, absently stroking Sherlock's nipple, which promptly contracted and perked up. His fingers lingered there, circling the nub over and over. Sherlock tried to ignore the tingling and collect his thoughts.

"Toys," he said hoarsely, cleared his throat, and moistened his lips with his tongue.

John sucked in a long, loud breath and pinched the nipple between his thumb and forefinger. His hips shifted forward; this caused the knot inside Sherlock to move no more than a hair's breadth but the sensation was so intense that he inhaled a quick, shocked breath and his fingers and toes curled up as if seized by cramps.

"Toys?" John's voice so close to Sherlock's ear sounded gruff and salacious. "Did you use an alpha dildo to pleasure yourself?"

"No... a normal-sized one," Sherlock gasped breathlessly.

"Did you insert it and imagine what it would be like to get fucked by an alpha? I would have liked to see that. To see you writhing on the bed, trying to shove that fuck-toy deeper inside yourself. Moaning into the pillow because you're so desperate and horny, because it doesn't feel nearly as good as a real..."

"_John_– "

"God... you're so fucking _tight_. You're making me crazy!"

Sherlock wasn't sure if the statement was really meant as a complaint, or whether there might be another meaning behind it entirely. Didn't this all feel just as good to John as it did to him? John had called their first round 'phenomenal,' and let himself go even more the second time, had positioned Sherlock just the way he wanted him and claimed him as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Claiming his right. His omega.

Sherlock should be angry about that, but instead he was enjoying the closeness and connection to another body immensely – in fact, he found he could scarcely do without it now. The contradiction sent a cold shiver down his back, setting ice cubes clattering in his stomach. Was he really only attracted to John because it was a dictate of biology? Or was there something... more?

"You should have told me before," John said and kissed the silver scar between Sherlock's shoulder and neck again, dragging his tongue over the tiny imperfections as if licking them clean and nibbling the skin fastidiously. "What about the past few years? No one?"

Barely able to suppress a blissful sigh, Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut and tried not to be too annoyed at the fluttering in his chest. He didn't like anyone to touch that spot; he'd even rudely rebuffed Mike when he'd wanted to palpate the scar in his role as a physician. But it was different with John. It felt good. _Right_.

"Don't... don't be ridiculous... John," Sherlock said, completely unable to infuse his voice with the desired amount of harshness. "Virginity is a social construct thought up by alphas to control omegas. Having sex with someone else doesn't make me more or less pure._Ah_!"

Sherlock moaned when John dug his teeth harder into the skin around the scar. His cock twitched lasciviously and grew hard; clear ejaculate fluid welled up from the slit and oozed over the rim of the glans. He felt fresh slick collecting in his hole, enabling the knot to slide back and forth more easily.

"Still," John whispered right into Sherlock's ear, "I'm your first... the first one inside you, the first one to see you like this, aren't I?" He teased Sherlock's earlobe with his tongue, sucking it in between his teeth and nibbling on it. "Say it," John commanded, pressing his knot further inside Sherlock's narrow channel.

"Yes," Sherlock groaned. "It's you, only you...!"

John drew his hips back far enough that the widest part of his knot was just barely enclosed by Sherlock's sphincter muscle. One millimetre more and he would have slipped out. But before that could happen, he plunged back inside Sherlock's body.

Sherlock gasped for air and moaned: a dark, guttural sound that was a mixture of agony and unnamed lust. The implacable bundle of blood-infused flesh was pressing directly against his prostate, catapulting him to the edge of his self-control in the blink of an eye. He turned his head into the pillow, trying to muffle his cries of desperation and scrabbling for John's arm in an attempt to push back against him as close as possible.

"So good, so good," John kept repeating as he tried to establish a rhythm to the rocking motions.

As soon as he grasped Sherlock's erection, it didn't take more than three heartbeats before the next orgasm shook his muscles with uncontrolled contractions. His anus squeezed around John's knot, making John cry out almost in pain as he climaxed. Only a small amount of semen dribbled out of the tip of Sherlock's cock onto John's hand.

"God, Sherlock... why didn't we – "John cut himself off before he was able to complete the thought, pressing his forehead against Sherlock's nape. But Sherlock could virtually feel the words hovering over them in the air anyway: _Why didn't we do this a lot sooner?_

_I don't know anymore... _Sherlock thought to himself and closed his eyes.

It was much too warm and humid underneath the blanket, but neither Sherlock nor John had the strength to do anything about it. The colour of the sky outside the window shifted, the first few birds started to twitter, and the sound of traffic picked up.

But the two men were already past noticing.

*

Sherlock woke several hours later with sore muscles and a headache. Their bodies had drifted apart while they slept, but their hands had found each other underneath the blanket as if a physical separation were unthinkable.

Sherlock cautiously extricated his fingers from the embrace and withdrew his hand without waking John. His gaze wandered pensively over the sleeping figure, taking in the stubble and tousled hair. John lay on his back, breathing evenly with one arm thrown over his head, the other extended in Sherlock's direction. His mouth was slightly open and his eyelids twitched in pursuit of a dream.

The air in the bedroom was stuffy and heavy, saturated with both of their scents, of sex and sweat. The bedsheet under Sherlock was still damp, and the mattress was probably beyond saving. They would definitely have to lay something underneath them before starting the next round, and dispose of the mattress after this was all over.

Sherlock propped himself up on one elbow and ran the fingers of both hands through his sticky hair. He was in urgent need of a shower, food, and drink. And maybe something for the pain. After all of the contortions and contractions of the past few hours, every single muscle group in his body was protesting at varying volumes.

A quick check of the clock informed him that he'd slept for a good six hours. It was therefore quite likely that the next heat surge wouldn't be too long in coming. He gritted his teeth and sat up then swung his legs off the bed. He carefully poked at his lower abdomen and limp penis, scraped off some of the dried semen, and grimaced.

This wasn't at all how he'd imagined this going.

And yet he couldn't say it had all been bad. It was true that he and John hadn't got on all that well outside of the heat. But at least they hadn't argued or thrown accusations at each other for several hours. All the doubts and fears that plagued Sherlock day in and day out were still there, but they had receded significantly into the background. Or been pushed back. Pushed back by an alpha who had blindsided him in every respect.

But wasn't Sherlock the one who had set everything in motion in the first place?

First he'd talked John into the bond, although he should have known that an alpha wouldn't be able to control his animalistic instincts. He'd bonded with him, fully aware that they wouldn't be able to separate again so easily. But he never imagined that their connection would be so powerful, despite the fact that they'd hardly known each other, and certainly hadn't had – nor had now – any feelings for each other.

Sherlock snorted in contempt. No, no: nothing had changed in that respect. It was just hormones gone wild in this extreme situation. There was no other explanation possible. Biology, as John always said. The uproar inside him would calm down as soon as the heat was over. They'd have to find a solution to their living situation at that point. There was no way he would be regularly spending any future heats with John.

No. They needed space and distance so that his body didn't think it needed to offer itself up to his alpha like a hunk of meat. Or a _tart_. The word kept rattling around in his head, painful and bitter.

Yes, the sex was incredible, Sherlock couldn't deny that; but it scared him to think that it would go on like this for hours – no, for days yet. This heat and those he'd gone through during puberty were worlds apart. It was much more demanding and significantly more intense than anything Sherlock had experienced before – and that couldn't just be down to the fact that he'd abstained from sex with a partner up to this point.

Mike Stamford had spoken of a connection between their souls that might be responsible for the fact that Sherlock could sense what John was feeling from time to time. John didn't seem to have experienced anything similar, however; otherwise he would certainly have behaved differently in the past. Or maybe not. Who could say for sure? In the end, all that alphas cared about was satisfying their urges, regardless of the effect that had on omegas. There were as many examples as there were stars in the sky.

Technically, alphas, betas and omegas were supposed to be equals, but anyone who had an ounce of sense could see that wasn't the case. The term 'omega' itself was an irrefutable clue as to how little value was attached to them, while betas – who had a completely different biology – claimed a societal position which was much closer to alphas than to omegas.

Whoever had come up with the nomenclature certainly hadn't been an omega...

Disgruntled, Sherlock pushed down on the mattress as he prepared to stand up. But before he could rise all the way to his feet, a hand groped for his wrist.

"Where are you going?" John asked, all sleepy and rumpled.

"Just to the loo," Sherlock gritted out, not bothering to conceal his displeasure. "Or is that not allowed?"

"Of course. Just... leave the door open, okay?"

"Don't be ridiculous, John. You don't need to listen to me piss on top of everything else," Sherlock snapped and yanked his arm away.

John huffed, affronted, and rolled onto his other side. "If anyone's being ridiculous around here, it's you!" he said and pulled the blanket up over his shoulder.

Piqued by John's words, Sherlock crossed his arms and whirled to face the alpha. "Who even gave you permission to sleep here anyway? Go to your own room!"

Without waiting for an answer, he turned on his heel and went into the bathroom, where he slammed the door shut and stepped in front of the mirror to have a look at himself. He looked tired and unkempt, but at least he couldn't see any hickeys or scratches that John might have marked him with. His stomach clenched with a combination of anxiety and panic, but he attributed it to hunger drawing gurgling attention to itself.

He relieved himself, cleaned his teeth, and turned on the shower to let the water get warm. But just as he stepped underneath the spray and his hair was pressed flat against his head, he heard John entering the bathroom.

"Go away, John! I really don't want to see you right now!" Sherlock cried through the shower curtain.

The metallic clink of the shower curtain rings made him flinch and whirl around, but before he could process what was happening, John had climbed into the tub in front of him and turned the shower head toward himself to catch some of the water. "What the – !"

"I need a shower. And I really don't like it when we're in different rooms," John said with a shrug, picked up his shower gel and started to soap up. "We should put something over the mattress, it's going to get completely soaked otherwise."

Outraged by John's lack of respect for his privacy, Sherlock crossed his arms and turned his back like a petulant child.

"What? You want me to wash your back?" John asked with an audible smirk in his voice.

"Just stay on your side, all right?" Sherlock growled and scrubbed the dried vestiges from his skin. He certainly wasn't about to admit that the burgeoning anxiety that had hit him earlier, had dissolved as soon as John appeared.

*

After the shower, Sherlock and John went into the kitchen clad only dressing gowns and slippers to find something to eat. Unfortunately, the refrigerator hadn't magically filled itself in the meantime. Instead, the fragrance of cinnamon and tea lured both men to the front door of the flat. On the landing stood a tray with a Thermos, a basket of cinnamon rolls, and a covered quiche. The meal bore all the marks of coming from Mrs Hudson, but there was no sign of the woman herself. In fact, her scent was so faint that she must have left the building altogether.

"I really need to apologise to her," John muttered as he picked up the tray and carried it carefully into the kitchen.

Sherlock lifted one eyebrow and twisted his mouth into a sarcastic smile. "You've already said that, and I still concur. At least that's one thing we agree on!"

They sat down at the kitchen table and ate in silence, drank the tea, and even set another kettle on to boil in order to compensate for their loss of fluids.

John, who had already devoured his second piece of quiche, glanced across the table at Sherlock. Sherlock knew that John needed several false starts before he could put his thoughts into words, but didn't feel any particular need to point that out. If he wanted something, he should spit it out or else hold his peace.

"Sherlock, I – "

But before John could finally say whatever was on his mind, the front door bell rang.

Sherlock was already halfway to standing when John reached for his hand the second time that day.

"Where are you going?!"

"To answer the door! Mrs Hudson isn't here, which you cannot have failed to notice," Sherlock stated, glaring down at John with a flash of annoyance.

"You can't just go to the door in your condition!" John replied, his eyebrows drawing together even further.

"In my... I live here! Of course I can!" Even more determined than a few seconds ago, Sherlock pulled away from the alpha and flung open the kitchen door. He hurried down the stairs, certain that John would be hot on his heels.

It was a strangely liberating feeling. If John hadn't been there, he would have avoided answering the door at all costs. After all, as an omega in heat, one could never know who was on the other side. At worst, it would be an unbonded alpha lurking in the neighbourhood who had picked up his scent and was just waiting for him to let his guard down. But John would never let that happen.

When he reached the ground floor, however, Sherlock realised his error. There was in fact an alpha outside the door, although he wasn't interested in Sherlock. A fact which John wouldn't register over his territorial instinct. Sherlock whirled around and extended his arms to stop John from doing something stupid. But John had already caught the scent of the alpha – and he was furious.

With a flying head start, he sprinted to the door and tore it open before Sherlock even got there.

"Get lost!" he roared, incensed. "He belongs to me!"

"John!" Sherlock tried to placate him. But the alpha on the other side of the door had already instinctively taken two steps back, his eyes flitting nervously between John and Sherlock. He had both hands raised as if to profess the lack of danger he posed; in one, he held a bulging manila folder.

"I'm sorry, I didn't realise that – "

Sherlock seized John's arm, which was pointing threateningly in Lestrade's direction, and tried to pull his alpha back. He cursed the sheer power emanating from the man and tried feverishly to think of a way to prevent him from tearing the Detective Inspector to pieces.

"He's using a scent blocker, John. He can't smell it!"

"I don't want him around here! Especially not now!" John barked without taking his eyes off the other alpha.

His hands still raised, Greg glanced quickly at Sherlock, then back to John when he made another threatening sound. "Sorry, mate! I had no idea that – I didn't want to bother you, just wanted to drop off the McKenzie file that Sherlock asked for."

Lestrade held the file out like a peace offering, but John batted at it as if it were a weapon. The file flew out of Lestrade's hand in a high arc and fell open. All of the papers inside scattered like flyers tossed out a window, landing all over the pavement with some ending up on the street, car roofs, windscreens, in puddles and muck.

"Goddammit!" Lestrade promptly bent down to collect the loose reports and crime scene photos before a passer-by got the shock of their life. He wasn't in the least surprised when the door to 221B slammed shut with a loud bang before the characteristic click of the lock sounded.

"John, what – "

"What the hell, Sherlock?! You can't simply invite some strange alpha into the flat when we're – " Nervous energy seemed to be coursing through John as he took an authoritative step in Sherlock's direction and forced him up against the nearest wall. His hands pushed through the opening of Sherlock's dressing gown, yanked it open, and wrapped around Sherlock's bare torso to pull the omega into a bone-crunching embrace. John pressed his nose into Sherlock's neck right over the scar and noisily inhaled Sherlock's scent.

"Did he touch you?" John asked between dropping assertive kisses onto his skin, his hands wandering down Sherlock's back, caressing his arse and grasping the firm flesh there to press their bodies closer together.

"No... no... he... he didn't touch me," Sherlock gasped, his heart racing wildly as he tried fruitlessly to pull John closer. Part of him couldn't believe how unbelievably overbearing John was acting. Another part of him wanted to turn around and present his arse so that his alpha would take him and stake his claim on the spot.

"You bloody – _ah_!" Sherlock leaned his head back and moaned breathily when John bit down a little too firmly on his neck, and sucked hard. This time he was definitely going to leave a prominent hickey.

Sherlock's blood reached the boiling point as it rushed through his veins, causing his cock to swell rapidly. Omega essence collected between his arse cheeks, tickling his thighs when it caught on the fine hairs there.

John's hands were everywhere, stroking and pinching his sensitive skin, pushing and pulling at Sherlock; fingers dipped into his armpits, his navel, behind his scrotum; teeth scraped his nipples, his iliac crest and the crease of his hip. Arms wrapped around Sherlock's legs, pulling him forward until John's red-hot mouth engulfed him completely.

Sherlock moaned in surprise and threw his head back, hitting the wall hard. He grasped the blond hair in front of him, seeking something to anchor him. Fingers felt their way over the swell of his arse, spread his cheeks and slipped into the moist space between them, effortlessly penetrating the ring of muscle and promptly finding the highly sensitive bundle of nerves inside him.

"_Ah!_" Sherlock moaned as John angled Sherlock's right leg and slid his shoulder underneath Sherlock's knee so that the leg rested on his shoulder.

John licked and sucked the smaller omega cock incessantly while his fingers plunged as deep as possible inside Sherlock's body to stimulate the release of more lubricant. He spread some of the viscous fluid on Sherlock's cock before putting it back into his mouth, letting out a downright obscene sigh.

Sherlock was breathing so fast that his vision started to go black. His knees turned to jelly and he started to lose his balance, but before he could collapse, John stood up to support him. His erection poked into Sherlock's abdomen, hot and hard.

"Let's go upstairs," John said and licked his lips.

Sherlock could do little more than nod. He followed John obediently up the stairs, holding fast to his hand the whole time and focusing on nothing other than remaining upright and not flinging himself to the ground to present himself to his alpha. John paused for a moment on the landing between the kitchen and living room entrances before entering through the latter, manhandling Sherlock inside with him.

"What – ?"

John swung the door shut and shuffled Sherlock toward the couch until he plopped down onto the cushions.

"We didn't remake the bed," John murmured his explanation and pushed the dressing gown down off his shoulders before dropping it carelessly onto the floor. With one foot on the edge of the coffee table, John pushed it back out of the way so that they wouldn't bump into it or knock off any cups or books with a careless motion. He took Sherlock by the shoulder to move him into a supine position, but Sherlock resisted.

"Wait, not like this," he said and scooted back a little to make enough space for him to turn around. But John apparently had other ideas. He prevented Sherlock from moving by holding onto his legs and pulling him in again.

"No," John said flatly and leaned forward. He slid his right knee onto the couch, leaving his left foot firmly planted on the floor. He used his forward momentum to angle Sherlock's legs open and took up position between them.

Within the space of two heartbeats, Sherlock felt the head of John's cock against his hole, and hissed in a sharp breath when it pierced him. He moaned from somewhere deep in his throat when John pressed even further inside him, not stopping until his crotch touched Sherlock's bottom. The material of Sherlock's dressing gown was damp and clung to the curve of his buttocks, but neither of them could have cared less.

John put his arms under Sherlock's knees and placed his hands on either side of Sherlock so that he was both supporting himself and holding Sherlock's legs open. His piercing gaze bored right through Sherlock, sending a shiver through his body that he couldn't explain.

"No other alpha..." John whispered gruffly, leaning down so close to Sherlock that their faces were barely a couple of centimetres apart, "is going to touch you during your heat. Or look at you. Or smell that irresistible scent. No other alpha is going to know how incredible you taste. Like nectar. Like ambrosia." Each statement was punctuated by a slow, deep thrust that drove every last breath of air out of Sherlock's lungs, making him grunt softly each time. "You belong to me. No one else!"

"_Johnnn – !_"

Sherlock couldn't keep his thoughts straight. Every single nerve was sending the most phenomenal signals through his system. Every word that John said was like a soothing balsam to his soul, which had thirsted for its counterpart for so long. For the first time in as long as he could remember, he let go; let himself be ruled solely by his emotions and instincts.

He reached for John, pulling him as close as he could from his doubled-up position, and put his fingers around the back of John's neck. He tugged harder, lifted his own head, and pressed his lips to John's, putting his tongue into John's mouth, where it promptly found John's. Heat fizzed in his stomach and tiny fireworks exploded behind his eyelids. He wanted –

_No! Oh God, no, no, no, no!_

Sherlock opened his eyes wide in shock and found himself staring at John's startled face, who had stopped moving. Had he returned the kiss? Sherlock didn't know. It didn't matter. It _never_ should have happened!

Sherlock realised to his mortification that his cheeks were flushing red. Uselessly, he threw his arms over his face and stuttered a "Sorry!" before pressing his lips together as hard as he could in order not to allow another similar error to happen.

"It's... it's okay," John said softly without resuming his motions, but also without withdrawing. "It doesn't bother me. Kissing you, I mean. It's... the hormones. Completely normal." His voice sounded gentle – too gentle – as if he were soothing a child after it had made a major misstep.

"'s not okay," Sherlock complained between his crossed arms. He would never be able to look John in the face again without sinking through the floor from embarrassment. Kissing was for _real_ couples, for lovers; for people who had made a joint decision to spend the rest of their lives together. Not for... whatever they were.

Sherlock jerked away when John stroked his chin with his thumb.

"This is a highly unusual situation. We're... doing things together that we wouldn't... normally do. And the... kissing... is part of it. Just do what your body wants; what your instincts tell you. And afterwards..." John carefully nudged Sherlock's arms up so that he could see his face. "… afterwards, we won't talk about it anymore."

Sherlock swallowed hard and nodded once, still unable to muster the courage to meet John's eye.

** _Three years and five months ago_ **

"You sick of being controlled by your emotions? No problem! This shit will get you through the night without you feeling anything, either from them or your alpha."

"Is it dangerous?" Sherlock asked, looking sceptically at the needle which the other omega held between her bony fingers.

The girl swiped a few stray strands of hair out of her face and twisted her lips into a crooked smile. "Oh yeah!"

They'd met at a club. A dark underground room somewhere in the labyrinthine back alleys of Camden. A club run by omegas, for omegas – in particular those who had one or the other bone to pick regarding their 'better half.'

Sherlock had assumed for quite a long time that he was the only omega who didn't want an alpha in his life. But the fact was that there were a whole lot of unhappy omegas. Not necessarily unhappy with their partners per se, but with the situation they found themselves in as omegas in this society.

The equality that was supposed to exist according to the law was nothing more than a myth. As soon as an omega hit puberty – if not sooner – he or she would be sent to a segregated school. The same thing happened to alphas, to be fair, but their schools were intended to prepare them for higher education and well-paying jobs, while omegas were encouraged from the beginning to settle for the fine arts or an education which would prepare them at best for working as an assistant in the lowest ranks of the hierarchy.

Omegas generally weren't thought capable of much more, especially as most of them stopped working as soon as they'd found a partner and wanted to dedicate themselves to domestic tasks. Starting a family seemed to be their only ambition, which made life that much more difficult for omegas who had no interest in such things. The situation was particularly unsatisfactory for male omegas, who were biologically incapable of bearing children. Their only chance was to find an alpha female who was willing to interrupt her own career to have a child, which her husband would then care for – or to adopt, which most alphas didn't want.

Then there were those omegas whose partner cheated on or left them. The cuckolded partner always had a harder time of it than the cheater; after all, omegas were much more sensitive than alphas. Even so, it was rare for a bond to be broken, since the chemical sledgehammer that was necessary for the process was so potent that both partners suffered greatly, and could even die.

Others lost their partner due to accident or illness. Depending on how strong the bond between the partners had been, the surviving partner might also die within a short period of time.

Sherlock was painfully well acquainted with just such a case. His mother had fallen victim to Broken Bond Syndrome shortly after his father's death, and eventually died of it. Her body simply hadn't been able to take the violent breaking of the bond.

Sherlock had read countless studies of the phenomenon amongst both alphas and omegas, and come to the conclusion that it only happened in cases where the relationship was particularly close. Shorter or more emotionally distant relationships in which one partner died of an illness or through an accident rarely led to Broken Bond Syndrome; at most, the widow would fall into a depression lasting several weeks.

All the more reason not to get emotionally involved with an alpha. All they did was make trouble, sleep with other people, or demand that their omega make changes to fit into the alpha's life, until the omega completely lost any semblance of self-determination.

Sherlock had gone for the less involved bond – even without the foreknowledge of some metaphysical connection between himself and his potential mate. Of course, he'd seen how much his mother had suffered during his father's illness, but he'd always attributed it to her feelings for him, and not to the bond itself.

Now that Sherlock had first-hand experience with how deep his bond with John went – despite them never having had a very close relationship – he was in dire need of countermeasures to regain control over the situation. He'd asked around with other omegas and eventually ended up here: in Camden.

The young omega female held the needle out to him, offering. Sherlock took it and examined the opaque liquid inside. He hadn't told her how vividly he felt everything John did; the story of soul bonds was widespread in omega circles and had attained something of a mythological status which no halfway intelligent person could take seriously. Admitting that he was able to sense his alpha several thousand kilometres away would only be interpreted as the pain of separation – and that was definitely not what Sherlock felt.

He'd often been forced to experience _in virtuo_ as John had sex with other people. Usually, Sherlock hadn't really been aware of the other parties, only how John felt when he was with them. As a consequence, he'd assumed that they must have been betas.

But it was different this time. Sherlock had felt very clearly John's attraction to another omega. An omega in heat. His feelings about that were conflicted. On the one hand, he felt excitement, lust, and desire; at the same time, though, there was anger and disgust. It was hard to tell whether those negative emotions were directed at the other omega, or at Sherlock, who had refused John and taken away any chance he might have had to ever connect with his own omega.

Sherlock didn't want to feel any of that. He didn't want to know what it was like for John to have sex with another omega... and possibly even fall in love with them. He didn't want to feel lust when John climaxed inside the other omega, knowing that he himself would never have that experience.

It was all too much... too much... _too much!_

The needle pierced his skin effortlessly. It slid inside like a hand into a glove. A bullseye on the first try. Once he depressed the plunger, it only took two heartbeats before he felt the chemical cocktail fly through his bloodstream, lighting up his synapses. More oxytocin and serotonin than he knew what to do with, until any signals coming from John's direction were drowned out.

_Perfect... exactly what he needed_.

+++

tbc


	9. Chapter 9

** _Three years and five months earlier_ **

The gravel of the car park crunched under the wheels of both all-terrain vehicles as they came to a stop. The doors opened and a group of alphas tumbled out of the SUVs, laughing and hooting. John still had no idea where the gang was taking him for his birthday surprise. Grinning like fools, they shoved and pushed John in front of them towards a nondescript building standing on its own and surrounded by a tall, wrought-iron fence.

Curious, John looked around at the surroundings. There were no more than a handful of vehicles standing on the gravel lot: two other military vehicles – one German and one American – along with a few civilian cars. The closest other buildings were several hundred metres away. John spotted two security cameras perched above the six-foot gate. One seemed to be positioned to film the parking area, the other was pointing at the entrance. The building stood illuminated by the low evening sun, displaying no indication of what was inside. The back of John's neck started to prickle ominously when his group stopped in front of the gate.

Jones – an alpha who was already on his fourth mission in Afghanistan and tended to act as a kind of tour guide for his fellow soldiers – strode up to the glowering guard. Although the other man was a beta, he was tall and powerfully built, and met Jones's posturing beat for beat. His confident attitude was possibly bolstered by the handgun which he wore in a prominent holster on his belt.

John watched as Jones exchanged a few low words with the guard, pointing back at his posse and gesturing in John's direction. Eventually, after several banknotes were passed over, the group was waved through.

As John passed through the gate, the beta gave him an amused smile and reached out to clap him on the shoulder. His hand hovered in the air for a moment before lowering again without completing the gesture. As if he'd somehow remembered that behaviour like that was inappropriate toward an alpha soldier and … patron?

Instead, his grin widened, displaying a row of crooked yellow teeth. "Have fun," he said in the local language, which even John understood with his rudimentary knowledge of Pashto.

They walked down a narrow, pebble-lined path until they came to a brown door, which opened upon their arrival. A young beta male who couldn't have been much older than eighteen stood in the doorway and gave the party a subservient smile.

"Please follow me," he said in broken, strongly accented English and closed the door as soon as the last alpha had entered.

The first thing John noticed was the smell which suffused the entire place. Patchouli, rosebuds, and oriental spices combined with the scents of musk, hops, and arousal. Buried somewhere far beneath all of that was something sweet and mellow. And... John couldn't say for sure, but he fancied he was also picking up the stale scent of despair alongside the lust.

He fell back two paces to join Bill, who had been the last to enter. "What's going on here? Where are we?" he whispered.

Bill shrugged cluelessly and looked around with an equal amount of curiosity. "They didn't tell me anything either. Probably thought I'd spill the beans. Let's just see what happens!"

The group was led into a dimly lit room that was furnished so as to fulfil every Arabian cliché. Colourful carpets lay on the floor. Silk scarves hung from the walls and ceiling as decoration. Oriental-style lamps illuminated the various floor cushions and clusters of luxuriously upholstered sofas in a diffuse light. Although alcohol was forbidden in Afghanistan – at least for the natives – John spotted a discreet bar at one end of the room, where a young waiter was serving tea and juice as well as beer and wine. John also recognised a few bottles of hard liquor on a shelf along one wall.

Small tables with hookahs were scattered amongst the floor cushions. Guests sat around them in small groups, chatting with each other while they smoked and drank. The general mood was relaxed and casual. Laughter broke out here and there. But John sensed instinctively that there was tension in the room. Something that set his teeth on edge and hung heavy in the air. Like electricity building up in the atmosphere right before a summer thunderstorm.

John looked around at the guests, sizing things up. He saw several soldiers along with a few locals. A handful of beta males formed one group, but the majority were alphas, fairly equally balanced between males and females.

John's party headed for one of the free seating arrangements and settled around the table. A waiter hurried over, handed out drink menus, and set up the hookah. Before John could even take a look at the leather-bound booklet, Jones signalled at the group and ordered in the local language. The waiter nodded and rushed industriously away. The sweet fragrance of tobacco spread through the air when someone sucked on the stem of the hookah and exhaled the vapor. John declined with a 'no thanks' when the alpha next to him – Leslie, a burly redhead who was at least a head and half taller than John – offered him the hose. John had never particularly liked the woman.

The waiter returned with a tray full of beers and shots and distributed the glasses to the group. Everyone grabbed a drink and held them up in John's direction.

"To you!"

"Happy birthday, Captain!"

"Cheers, John."

"To our very own 'Three Continents Watson'!"

The alphas jabbered and offered congratulations, all talking over each other and clinking their glasses against John's.

"Thanks, guys!" he replied, hurriedly taking a sip of his beer. His throat was parched, and as much as he tried to tell himself that this place was nothing more than a – possibly illegal – bar, his scalp still tingled with suspicion and vigilance.

"Aren't you going to tell me where we are now?"

Jones guffawed and drained half of his glass in one gulp. "Wait and see, Doc. The show's about to … ah... get started."

The other alpha indicated a metal-bound door at one end of the room, which was just opening. Middle Eastern music began to play, and a woman in billowing robes danced in.

A hush fell over the conversations around the room as every eye turned toward the woman – almost still a girl, in fact, upon closer inspection. Long, dark hair tumbled down her back and framed her heart-shaped face. Her petite frame was enveloped in red-and-white fabrics, richly embroidered with golden thread and glittering jewels. Only her abdomen and feet were exposed. A ruby-red stone twinkled in her navel. She began to sway gracefully in time with the music.

John leaned back, amused. Of course the girl was charming, but the show felt like something in an oriental-style hotel rather than a war zone. If this was the big surprise his mates had planned for him, John could finally start to relax. At least that's what was going through his mind when Bill sucked in a surprised breath and nudged John in the ribs with her elbow.

"Look at this!" she hissed and handed John what he had thought was the drinks menu.

John's eyebrows rose in astonishment when he took a closer look at what was on the page. It wasn't the selection of cocktails that he'd expected. Instead, passport-sized photographs of various men and women were on display, with each person's age, size and weight listed next to their picture. As well as their eye and hair colour and the date of their _last heat_.

"Oh my God!" John gasped.

He lowered the menu, aghast, and looked up. Before him, in the centre of the room, the dancer was just unwrapping her silk skirt. He hadn't noticed when she started undressing. Accompanied by loud whistles and applause, she finally divested herself of her last article of clothing, a pair of skin-tight knickers. She was now entirely naked except for a necklace, which John had thought was a piece of jewellery. Now, upon closer inspection, he saw that a tiny lock dangled around the girl's neck; the piece was thicker around the back, almost completely covered by her long hair, and bore a similarity to the indestructible chainmail shirt of a knight's armour. A bite protector.

_Fuck..._

"Shit, Bill. She's an omega!"

The nurse nodded without taking her eyes off the dancer. She stared at the girl with her eyes fairly bugging out, just like all of the other alphas around them. Some of them had their mouths hanging open, while others were desperately inhaling the scent permeating the room. John thought he could make out a bulge in some of their trousers. One alpha at the table next to them had stuffed his hand down the front of his pants and was openly masturbating.

"Guys, what's going on here?"

"Keep your hat on, Captain," Leslie said with a grin. "The show's just getting started."

As if on command, the girl gathered up her clothes, took a shy bow, and slipped back through the steel door. She left it open, however, as a line of several young people were led into the room.

John watched with both fascination and confusion as the group stood there in a row waiting, flanked by two beefy armed betas. They were all young and naked, aside from the bite protector. And there was something else they had in common that was impossible to overlook: arousal and lust, coupled with hopelessness and fear.

The slender omega penises were all erect, and the nipples on both males and females had contracted to firm buds. John thought he could make out something wet running down their bare legs.

The air was pregnant with aphrodisiacal fragrances in a wide range of variations, making it difficult for John to breathe. The cocktail crept into his nose and mouth, coating hair follicles and numbing air sacs. John swallowed hard.

For their part, the omegas watched the alphas with wide eyes. They sniffed the air, some of them shifting nervously from one foot to the other, while others mechanically rubbed their genitals.

The room was filled with low sighs, grunts, and the sound of flies being opened. The smell of desire hung heavy in the space, yet no one made any move to be the first to approach the other. Both groups seemed to be waiting for some kind of green flag.

And it promptly appeared in the form of a powerfully built, sixty-something alpha who passed through the steel door last. He had a lordly, authoritative presence, and was apparently completely unimpressed by the omegas, who shuffled aside and regarded him with a combination of lust and fear.

"My dear guests. My friends!" he began in heavily accented but exacting English. "I am very pleased to see so many of you again today. As you all know, your pleasure with the omegas is included in the price of admittance. So choose the one that appeals to you the most. If you want to share one, or bestow your favour on more than one, you are likewise more than welcome. There is no need for fighting. There is enough for everyone. Have fun, let off your steam. But please, do not attempt to bite my darlings. The protector is made of titanium and is indestructible in any case. All that you will do is damage your precious teeth. Aside than that, you may do whatever your heart desires. But..." And here, the man grinned conspiratorially and winked at the assemblage. "Do not leave any permanent injuries."

He clapped his hands once, made a half bow, and withdrew in the direction of the bar. As one, every alpha in the room stood up. The beta group were the only ones who remained seated, following the spectacle with open fascination.

John went over to the omegas with everyone else, as if on auto-pilot, making a beeline for a young man with pale eyes who watched him shyly. He was slender, almost gazelle-like. His dark hair was cut close to his head, emphasising his fine facial features. And even though his skin was darker and nothing about his attitude hinted at any amount of self-confidence, John was almost painfully reminded of Sherlock.

Two voices within him began arguing loudly. One screeched how terribly wrong all of this was, while the other wanted nothing more than to pound deep and hard into the omega, to bite and mark him. To take what John deserved.

The youngster pressed himself against John with blatant desire, sighing and rubbing his cock on John's trousers. John automatically pulled the omega close and buried his nose in the crook of his neck. He couldn't quite get at his nape, which was covered by the chainmail, so he had to make do with sniffing at the soft skin underneath his earlobe.

The omega smelled good.

John strengthened his grip and inhaled deeply.

The omega smelled _wrong_.

"Sir?" the young man asked in confusion when John flinched back as if he'd been burnt.

"No. I can't – sorry – " John shook his head and took one step back, lifting his hands in a defensive gesture.

Feeling disorientated, he looked around and took in the scene around him with disgust.

Several alphas were engaging in intercourse right there with the omega they had chosen, with orgiastic enthusiasm. Tables and cushions were being used for unintended purposes. From every direction came the rhythmic slap of skin on skin, slick sliding, sharp cries, and ecstatic moans.

Jones had just pushed a youth down onto one of the sofas and was opening his flies. There was something threatening about him. Like a predator on the prowl, about to tear his prey apart.

Shorty, a dark-skinned, two-metre-tall hulk, had picked up a petite omega, who seemed downright puny in comparison. His enormous cock protruded from his trousers. The erection, as big around as an adult's lower arm, appeared grotesque next to the dainty girl. John turned away in shame when Shorty yanked the omega onto his lap and rammed mercilessly into her. Her scream of pain made John's blood run cold.

Leslie stood just a few feet away, playing with the nipples and penis of a male omega, who was writhing sensually from her touch. She looked over at John and gave him a lopsided grin. "Is that little fella not doing it for you, Captain? I'm sure we can find someone else who'll finally let you get it in there."

"What?" John asked, nonplussed. "What are you talking about?"

The alpha laughed thunderously as she unceremoniously stuck one finger into the omega's arse, causing him to moan loudly.

"See, that's how it's done, 'Three Continents'." Her voice was dripping with sarcasm, and once again John was reminded how little he liked the woman. "Bill said your omega's playing hard to get, and we thought it's about time for you to get some. That can't be healthy."

John's veins filled with ice water. The small amount of lust he'd been feeling up to that point evaporated into thin air. He looked around for Bill, and found her massaging a long-haired omega's small breasts. The girl had her head thrown back and one hand on her crotch, which she was rubbing feverishly.

John was at Bill's side in two strides. He grabbed her by the arm and pulled her aside. She snarled with outrage and prepared to slug him, curling both hands into fists before she recognised her superior officer.

"What the hell is wrong with you, John?"

"What's wrong with me? What's wrong with the lot of _you_? And you in particular? Aren't you all bonded and oh so proud of your relationships? And here you are, acting like a bunch of rutting beasts! What would Cilia say if she saw you like this? What would you do if another alpha touched her?"

"Shit!" All of a sudden, all of Bill's aggression vanished. She ran her hands through her short, sweaty hair. Then she grabbed John by the wrist and dragged him toward the exit.

"Come on, let's get out of here."

*

Out on the gravel lot, they found Daniel, another soldier from John's group. He was the youngest in the unit, and had only been in Afghanistan for a short time. He was leaning against one of the cars and smoking with a disgusted expression on his face.

John was at his side in no time. On impulse, he grabbed the cigarette and took a long drag on it. He ignored the burning in his throat and lungs, and inhaled again, then a third time, before finally returning the fag.

"What the hell kind of stupid idea was that?" John growled, suppressing a cough.

"I had no idea, John. I would never have... Shit, Cilia's going to kill me."

"You didn't have to screw with the omega, Murray. Sometimes I'm ashamed to be an alpha. You should have seen you all... like animals. As if you had no self-control." Daniel gave Bill a dirty look from head to toe. "I would have expected better of you, if no one else. _Cilia this, Cilia that._ And now something like this. Disgusting."

John watched tensely as Bill curled her hands into angry fists and moved with obviously threatening intent toward Daniel, who was unable to retreat with his back already against the car. But before Bill reared back to land a punch – or rather, before John determined if and when he should intervene – she lowered her hands without following through.

"You're right..." she muttered. "But nothing like that's ever happened to me before. I've never been around another omega in heat. And the whole room smelled so damn good! It was like I was hypnotised..."

Daniel scratched the back of his head sheepishly. "Sorry if I came across too harsh. But that smell in there made me feel more aggressive than anything else; guess I still am. It just all smelled so wrong. It almost felt like my omega was shoving me out of there with everything she's got. Like Marissa and I were both horrified at that twisted orgy. If I'd known what was going to go down, I never would have come along." He shrugged and fished a car key out of his trouser pocket. "Whatever. Wanna get out of here? Jones should have the other key. And if not, I don't really give a fuck."

The three got into the car, John in the back seat. He leaned his head against the headrest behind him and closed his eyes. He was terribly tired all of a sudden. He let out a soft sigh.

"Everything all right?" Bill inquired, turning around in her seat to look at John in the back. Her dark brown eyes mustered him with concern. "You're awfully pale."

"I... I don't know. I'm feeling woozy all of a sudden and... oh God, hang on."

The car hadn't quite come to a complete standstill before John flung open the door, staggered outside, and vomited until nothing else came up but bitter gall. Still gagging, he stood doubled over with his arms wrapped around his middle. A hand touched his shaking shoulder from behind.

"Okay?"

John slowly straightened up and wiped his mouth. Now that his stomach was empty, he felt surprisingly good. In fact, better than good. He felt downright euphoric; almost high.

Was it because he was unaccustomed to the nicotine, or had someone spiked his drink? Either way: he felt absolutely fantastic. Like he could uproot tree trunks with his bare hands.

He whirled around, smiling giddily, to look at Bill. But as he pivoted, his vision went black. The last thing he saw was the uneven bitumen surface of the road, onto which he crashed a moment later.

** _Present day_ **

John was shaken. He could still feel Sherlock's soft lips on his, despite the fact that he'd moved away in a panic quite a while ago now. And yet John could still feel that sweet kiss, the moist tongue, the warm cavern of Sherlock's mouth. That infinitesimal moment in which Sherlock had allowed John to penetrate him even further. Not physically, but emotionally. Which wouldn't have been possible anyway, since he was already in as deep as he could be with the omega.

And despite the fact that they shared a closeness and intimacy that was only possible between alphas and omegas; despite the fact that John had bound Sherlock to him with his knot more than once; despite the fact that they were bonded to each other for the rest of their lives, it was that delicate kiss that had touched him the most deep inside. The feeling had spread through him like a gentle light, illuminating his darkest corners and driving away his shadows.

As soon as John had started moving again – more tentative and less frantic than before – he'd leaned forward to initiate another kiss. In doing so, he wanted to show Sherlock that everything was fine between them. That there was nothing which John wasn't willing to give him as part of their union. That there was no need for a false sense of shame. But despite Sherlock's hesitant nod, the omega still refused to meet John's eye. Instead, he continued to turn his face aside whenever John sought out his lips. Sighing, John buried his face in the crook of Sherlock's neck instead, and contented himself with inhaling the intoxicating scent there.

When his knot eventually swelled again, catapulting Sherlock to another climax, John squeezed his eyes shut and sucked hard on the fair skin to stop himself from giving in to the urge to kiss Sherlock again. For he was certain that he wouldn't be able to resist if he looked into Sherlock's expressive face during his orgasm.

This coitus was no less intense than the previous times had been. And yet both of them seemed to be trying not to let themselves get completely carried away in the throes of passion anymore. They barely exchanged caresses afterwards, instead lying quietly together, John on top of Sherlock, until his knot had deflated far enough for him to get up. Sherlock immediately slid off the sofa and hurried into the bathroom.

John listened to Sherlock get into the shower for the second time that day. The physical pain of separation from his omega hit him again, yet this time he didn't dare to follow Sherlock. Instead, he placed an online order for some groceries and ready-to-eat meals from the local supermarket. On the homepage, he clicked on the option to have everything delivered by a beta. After all, neither an alpha nor an omega could leave the house once a heat began.

He used the order as an excuse to step in front of the half-open bathroom door and ask Sherlock what he wanted. He didn't want to admit – even to himself – that his true purpose was to reduce the distance from his omega.

*

As if by silent agreement, they didn't look each other in the eye during subsequent heat surges. Instead, Sherlock automatically rolled onto his stomach, or else John lay behind the omega.

Between rounds, they didn't talk much, instead busying themselves with their own activities as much as possible. The main thing was that they were never too far apart. Sherlock typed on his laptop, while John leafed listlessly through a novel. He didn't notice that he was turning the pages on auto-pilot and hadn't even registered the name of the main character. Instead, he focused on controlling his instincts and not crowding Sherlock, preferring to give him some space. The omega was uncharacteristically subdued and introspective most of the time anyway.

When John felt his knot swelling late in the evening of the third day, he instinctively knew that it would be the last time during this heat. He automatically drew Sherlock closer and placed a gentle kiss on his scar. He wanted to take his time and enjoy every moment as long as he could. He stroked his omega to climax, kissing him tenderly, and spilled inside him a few moments later.

John laid his hand over Sherlock's sternum, fascinated at the feeling of their hearts beating in unison. He sighed and rested his forehead against Sherlock's shoulder blade. A wistful smile tugged at the corner of his mouth when Sherlock slid his fingers in between John's and wove them together.

"That was the last surge," he murmured softly.

"I know," John answered. He pressed his lips onto the oval mark which his teeth had left on Sherlock's flawless skin five years ago. "As soon as my knot's gone down, I'll go upstairs so you can rest."

"Mm-hm," Sherlock agreed. And yet he tightened his grip on John's hand.

Sherlock was dozing when John's cock slipped out of him some time later. John climbed out of bed as quietly as he could.

"John?"

"Yeah... I... I'll be upstairs if you need me."

"Whatever would I need you for?" Sherlock grumbled, half-asleep.

"Right. Forget it."

John would never have admitted how much Sherlock's words hurt him. Something inside him had secretly hoped that the omega would ask him to spend their last night together. Instead, he was now lying in his own bed. Alone. For the first time in days. He perked his ears and listened hard, fancying he could hear Sherlock tossing and turning in the room below him.

John resisted the temptation to return to his omega. Instead, he sighed quietly, rolled onto his side, and pulled the blanket up over his shoulder. The exertions of the last few days had taken their toll, and ensured that John was sound asleep a few moments later.

*

John slept through until early the next afternoon, not waking until a loud crash followed by an abbreviated curse came from the floor beneath him.

He was on his feet in a flash, already pulling on his dressing gown, when he stopped and grimaced in pain. His shoulders, his back, his thighs – his entire body, really, ached with every movement. Now that the hormones from the heat were no longer coursing through his veins, he abruptly became aware of just how strenuous it all had been.

Plus, he was starving and parched. John reached for a bottle of stale water on his nightstand and drained it greedily. His head throbbed whenever he moved, and even the roots of his hair seemed to be lodging a protest. To say nothing of his overworked genitals. He carefully pulled down his pyjama trousers to inspect his penis. He hissed softly when he touched the limp appendage. It was red and sore, and there were vestiges of Sherlock's lubricant and semen stuck in his pubic hair which he hadn't been able to completely get rid of when he'd sponged off last night. Fortunately, he didn't see anything that a hot bath, a little ointment, and a couple of painkillers couldn't fix.

Another curse and the sound of breaking glass finally set John in motion again. Whatever Sherlock was doing downstairs, it sounded as if John's presence were necessary. Even if the stubborn omega would never admit it.

*

If John's subconscious had perhaps worried that their first encounter following the heat would be embarrassing or awkward, Sherlock promptly disabused him of the notion. John had barely set foot in the living room of 221B when Sherlock stormed over to him and gave him a venomous glare. He grabbed John's sleeve and pulled him toward Sherlock's bedroom.

"Nice of you to finally have the courtesy to turn up," he snapped. "I hope you got a good sleep and took care of your chafed ... never mind. Come in here and help me already. After all, this is all your fault!"

"What the hell – "

John broke off in the middle of asking what Sherlock was talking about when he saw the mess in the bedroom.

The window was wide open and there was only a faint echo of the sweet scent of their union. The expensive sheets were stuffed in rubbish bags, along with the pillows and blankets, and the nightstands had been pushed to one side. A glass full of water had apparently been knocked down in the process and broken, which explained the sound of glass shattering.

Sherlock tugged at the mattress and tried to lift it.

"Are you going to help me now or what?!"

"Do you really want to bin it all?" John asked, horrified. "It'll be enough to get a new mattress and wash the rest. We'll just get an absorbent cover for next time, and – "

Sherlock clicked his tongue disapprovingly and shook his head. "There won't be a next time, John. I don't want to see any of this any more. Well?" He gestured broadly around. "Would you finally make yourself useful? The furniture movers will be here within the hour. Thank God for express delivery..."

_There won't be a next time..._

John didn't hear anything more of Sherlock's babbling. He went over to the bed, heaved the mattress up all by himself, and yanked and dragged it out of the bedroom and down the stairs, where he abandoned it on the floor of the front hall. Let the movers take care of it.

Back in the flat, he went straight into the bathroom without dignifying Sherlock with so much as a glance, and started to fill the tub. Hauling the mattress had aggravated his overworked muscles even more, and all that he needed now was a hot bath.

*

The essential oils he'd added to the bath had worked wonders, as had the muscle relaxant which he had washed down with a litre of water. Now he stood in the kitchen, using the biggest pan he could find to fry up a nice big English breakfast consisting of rashers, eggs, and beans. He didn't care that it was late afternoon. He shovelled his food onto a plate, feeling quite satisfied with himself, while he listened with half an ear to Sherlock ordering the furniture movers around.

He had to resist the temptation to punch the sleazy beta who made a suggestive comment toward Sherlock while helping his mate carry the new mattress upstairs.

Of course the tradesmen were well aware what the impetus had been for the express order. And yet hadn't Sherlock always made it clear that he didn't need John for anything? Therefore, he clenched his teeth, ignored the lecherous grins, and concentrated on his meal.

A short while later, after the movers had left, Sherlock came into the kitchen and made a bee-line for the – now empty – pan. He turned to John, disappointed.

"Didn't you leave any for me?"

John huffed with amusement. "The heat is over. Why should I provide you with food now? Maybe there's some of the ready-made meals left in the fridge."

Sherlock pursed his lips and whirled around so fast that his dressing gown billowed up behind him, and stormed back into his bedroom.

"Go to _hell_, John Watson!"

"No, you go to hell, Sherlock Holmes!"

John shook his head and stood up, grabbed his keys and phone off the table, and put them into his trouser pockets. He needed a walk, now.

It seemed that they were back at square one...

+++

tbc


	10. Chapter 10

**Present day**

Sherlock closed his bedroom window in a huff and sat down on the bed, only to leap to his feet again a moment later when a sharp pain zinged through his nervous system. He paced back and forth, his nose irritated by the tang of plastic and chemical cleaners emanating from the mattress. But he was happy to put up with it if it meant he didn't have to smell any remnants from the heat – from John.

Every muscle in his body was proclaiming its misery. He would actually rather have gone back to bed instead of going to such lengths as he had that morning, but the restlessness lurking beneath his skin simply wouldn't allow it. If he'd followed his instincts, he would have pursued John up to the second floor and joined him in bed; would have snuggled up to him and breathed in his scent – just like he had for the past few days. But of course that was completely out of the question.

The heat was over, and along with it the intimacy which had been forced on them by nature and ensured that they hadn't ripped each other's throats out during their physical union. But now the farce was over and done with; the thudding heart and butterflies in his stomach were over and done with; the feeling of being cracked open and defenceless was over and done with. Sherlock was glad that he had his thoughts and emotions back under control, and had no more need of John.

He'd awoken following a brief, restless sleep, washed meticulously, and set about ordering the new mattress right away. There was no way he was going to spend another night on the old one, not with John's scent in every breath of air he inhaled. He'd ordered new bedding at the same time, and to hell with the old sheets – no matter how high the thread count was, or how expensive they'd been.

Seeing John emerge from his room that afternoon, all recovered and seemingly with no effects whatsoever from the last few days, had poured additional fuel on the fire of Sherlock's discontent. The alpha hadn't even offered to help when he'd seen Sherlock struggling with the soiled mattress. Sherlock had had to explicitly demand that he do his part. And then John had made himself breakfast without so much as considering whether to ask Sherlock if he wanted something too.

It was just so unfair that alphas had it so easy.

John wasn't the one who could barely sit down; he wasn't the one who felt as if he'd been scooped out and hung up to dry. He wasn't the one who yearned for comfort and a little human warmth, despite the fact that there was no logical reason for it. It infuriated Sherlock to no end that his mind and his body weren't in agreement; he felt as if a foreign entity had gained control of a fundamental part of him.

He huffed with annoyance. No, there would be no more heats. He wasn't about to give John a chance to get used to anything like that. He was going to make John's life a living hell so that he would leave the flat of his own accord. Once there was enough distance between them, Sherlock's body would settle down again. He felt certain of it.

*

Several days passed, during which Sherlock and John did their best to avoid each other.

Sherlock spent most of the time in his room, given a lack of alternatives, while John sat in the living room and did who knew what. Sherlock certainly didn't want to. Their paths usually only crossed in the kitchen, when one or the other was either preparing food or was already in the middle of eating it without offering the other anything. Either Mrs Hudson or John did the shopping – Sherlock wasn't sure who – or else things were delivered through the online service.

Sherlock basically didn't spend any time outside the flat. DI Lestrade hadn't even contacted him since the last incident. He was presumably waiting for Sherlock to give the all-clear, or come to the Yard in person. But Sherlock still didn't feel safe out there. The thought that he might draw the attention of an unbonded alpha frightened him, even though he knew the fear was irrational. After all, he himself was still bonded and not in heat – other alphas would therefore never consider him as a potential "victim."

So what was the problem? He couldn't understand it himself.

One Monday morning, Sherlock was lying in bed, fully dressed, trying very hard not to think about that heat – most especially not the way John had touched him, the way John had felt, the way he'd tasted...

He tossed and turned from one side to the other, recalling to his mind the formula for the pheromone blocker he'd been tearing his hair out over for so long. He hadn't made any solid progress on the compound since meeting John. It worked fairly well at a distance and was relatively reliable for suppressing omega pheromones – at least for two or three hours. After that, though, the personal scent seemed to be intensified for the same amount of time before reverting to normal. It could therefore hardly be called a blocker. It was more like a temporary damper – which simply sounded pathetic.

Sherlock hoped one day he'd be able to find a formula which would allow omegas to control their heats entirely on their own. With a medication like that, they would no longer be subject to the whims of their biology and tied to alphas who governed their lives. But it would be years before that happened...

Sherlock rolled over tetchily, only to notice that the door was open a crack and John was standing there with his shoulder against the frame, watching Sherlock. When their eyes met, John looked away and straightened up.

"I'll... erm... just be going then," he said and scratched his head, embarrassed.

Sherlock just let out a bored grunt. He had noticed that John left the flat every day and didn't return until the evening, but Sherlock wasn't entirely sure where he was going. Maybe he was looking for a job, or even another flat. Sherlock didn't really think so, though: after all, John felt it was more important to complain about his wonky leg than to do anything about it. And more importantly, he seemed to have got it into his head that he was going to take his role as Sherlock's alpha seriously.

At the same time, Sherlock had to admit that John had changed over the last few days. He acted more self-assured and calmer than before. The cane hadn't returned to the flat; he wore nicer clothes and his face had taken on a healthier colouring. That couldn't all be a side effect of the heat, could it?

Sherlock instinctively inhaled the scent coming from the doorway. The chemical bite of cologne tickled his nose, making him grimace. It was unusual for alphas or omegas to wear cologne, since it irritated their sensitive noses more than it complimented them. Which could only mean...

"You have a date?!"

John glanced up guiltily, only to avert his face again immediately.

"No..." Sherlock corrected himself. "It's too early for that." He sat up and leaned his elbows on his thighs while he examined John closely, cataloguing every detail of his appearance. He was wearing a new pair of trousers, his shoes had been cleaned, his shirt was ironed and creaseless, and an expensive – if dated – watch flashed from under his left cuff. His hair was a bit shorter, neatly trimmed, and styled with a touch of gel. There was no sign of the poverty-stricken medical student or estranged ex-soldier.

He looked... _good_. For some reason, that further darkened Sherlock's mood.

"So many new things... a decent haircut, the clothes. You want to make a good impression. _Ohh_... you've found a job then?"

"Isn't that obvious?" John said, sounding suspiciously like Sherlock. It was hard to say, however, whether he'd subconsciously assumed the tone of voice or whether he was mocking Sherlock.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "But that's not all, is it? The cologne tells me that someone at this new job has got your attention. You haven't worn that scent since you've lived here; it's extremely unpleasant and irritates my nose, by the way. Then there's the fact that you're saying good-bye before leaving the house – which you don't usually do."

Sherlock sprang to his feet and took one decisive step in John's direction, grasped the door with one hand and put the other on the jamb, and glared down at John threateningly. "Do you really think you can make me jealous? That I would be bothered if you go sniffing around someone else? And a beta at that?!" Sherlock all but spat the epithet at John's feet. "You've never interested me in the past, and you don't interest me now either!"

"Wait, what?! What the hell's that supposed to mean?"

Sherlock slammed the door shut in a mad fury before John had even finished speaking.

"Sherlock?!" came from the other side of the door, but Sherlock didn't make another sound, nor react to John's knocks. Several long moments passed before the alpha finally gave up and beat a hasty retreat.

Sherlock, both arms wrapped around himself and his shoulders drawn up around his ears, only relaxed a little when the downstairs front door was pulled shut and John's scent diminished noticeably.

*

"I hope I haven't forgot anything," Molly said, pushing the front door to 221B shut with her foot; in one hand she held a bag and the other was balancing a box.

Sherlock didn't even look up from his microscope, but let out a neutral-sounding grunt, fixed a new slide under the clips on the stand, and adjusted the eyepiece.

Molly took care setting the box down on the table; a faint sound of glassware came from inside. She then opened the box, lifted out several coloured glass vials, and lined them up. Finally, she took a USB stick out of her trouser pocket and put it on the table next to Sherlock's hand. Her eyes remained locked on Sherlock the whole time, trying unsuccessfully to garner his attention with nothing more than her presence.

"Why did you want me to bring this stuff here instead of you coming to the laboratory? Wouldn't that have been... simpler?" she asked after a while, during which Sherlock made no attempt to either look at her offerings or include them in his work in any way.

"Can't go out," Sherlock responded flatly and picked up the next slide.

"Why not? Are you ill?"

"I'm not sure." Sherlock straightened up and pushed his unruly curls off his face, ruffled them on the back of his head, and sighed.

"You look fine..." Molly murmured, then blushed when she realised she'd spoken the words out loud. "I mean... not sick! Just the opposite: your cheeks are pink and – Would you like some tea?" She hurriedly turned away and went over to the sink to fill the kettle and turn it on.

Sherlock couldn't fathom what had got into her; although, admittedly he rarely understood the problems of betas. His gaze raked over the new laboratory equipment as he mentally calculated whether it would suffice for his plans. Probably not.

"Can you get me any more of these?" Sherlock asked, making a broad gesture over the table.

Molly raised her eyebrows, then lowered them dubiously. "It's one thing when you come to the lab and use them there, Sherlock. But if so much goes missing from one day to the next without anyone seeing me using them... Security is only so lax because my boss trusts me, you know?" she said apologetically.

Sherlock was only listening with one ear. In his head, he was trying to deduce for what must have been the thousandth time how John would react if he came home and could no longer smell Sherlock's scent. Would he want to make sure that Sherlock was all right? Would he become suspicious or perhaps even aggressive because Sherlock was withholding even his scent from him?

_Would his entire biologically influenced attitude toward me change in the blink of an eye?_

"Molly...?"

"Hm?" Molly was just pouring the boiling water into two cups and dropping teabags in when she heard the strange tone in Sherlock's voice. She turned around and gave him a bewildered look.

"Have you ever been in love?"

If Molly's face was pink before, it now turned bright red. She spilled some of the hot water onto the counter before collecting herself enough to set the kettle back on the heating element.

"What? In love? What makes you say that?!" she asked, completely flustered, while she hurriedly mopped up the water with a tea towel.

"Nothing... forget it." Sherlock returned to his microscope and fiddled with one of the knobs without actually looking down the eyepiece.

A moment later, Molly set both cups on the table and sat down across from Sherlock. She blew across the steaming surface of her tea and watched as the brown streaks billowing out of the teabag became blurrier and blurrier until a uniform colour had formed.

"Well, to tell you the truth..." she began. Sherlock glanced up and saw that her cheeks were still bright pink. Her eyes were lowered, however, and she avoided looking directly at him. "I've been in love with someone for quite a while now. But he doesn't return my feelings. Sometimes I don't think he likes me at all... or even notices me," she said in a low voice, and took a cautious sip of her tea.

Sherlock replayed the words a couple of times in his head. Betas functioned very differently from alphas and omegas, and yet it seemed they had a lot in common.

"How does that make you feel?" Sherlock asked, as his focus wandered somewhere between the past and the present. When Molly didn't respond, he looked over at her. Her eyes were damp.

"Lost."

*

Sherlock watched Molly from the window, still going over their conversation in his mind. Fortunately, Molly had collected herself quite quickly and not burst out in tears in his kitchen over some fellow Sherlock didn't even know. He'd handed her some tissues and assured her that she would find the right person some day. The sort of thing one said in situations like that, in other words, whether one believed it oneself or not.

No, it hadn't been a good idea after all to ask Molly about a topic she had no knowledge of. A beta would never understand what went on inside an omega, much less what it meant to be forced to share a heat with someone who –

Sherlock bit the inside of his cheek. It wasn't possible; there was no way. He couldn't be in love with John just because they'd bonded and shared a heat together. They had nothing in common whatsoever, they barely knew each other, and didn't even like each other very much. How was love supposed to arise from conditions like that? It simply made no sense!

And yet his body seemed to be utterly convinced of it.

Hormones... they were good for nothing but trouble.

Sherlock turned away from the window, looking grim. His eyes were drawn to the door, and he felt the sudden onset of an urge to go outside and get some fresh air, to finally escape the confines of these four walls. At the same time, though, an indefinable fear seeped in, nipping that impulse in the bud. What was going on? Should he consult Mike Stamford? No, out of the question, not after what had happened at their last consultation.

Didn't he know any other omegas who – Of course! Sherlock grabbed his phone and pressed one of the quick dial buttons. It rang on the other end for quite some time before anyone picked up.

"Sherlock." The monotone voice on the other end instantly catapulted Sherlock back to the past, to a life he'd left behind long ago.

"Anthea. How are you?" he asked with exaggerated cheer.

"Well, thank you. And you? I haven't heard from you in..." Anthea paused dramatically before finishing: "...forever."

"Yes well, you know how it is. I've been busy!" Not even a minute into the conversation, and Sherlock was already regretting his decision to ring Mycroft's omega, of all people.

"You always are..." she replied with a vaguely doleful note. She apparently still held it against him that he hadn't returned to her and Mycroft's care after his hospital stay, choosing instead to live free of the social strictures of a bond – at least for a couple of months.

"How much do you need this time?"

"I don't need your money!" Sherlock snarled, agitatedly pacing back and forth in the living room. He needed to get it together if he wanted to extract any sort of useful information from Anthea. "I simply wanted... some advice."

"Advice? From me?" It might have been the first time Sherlock heard anything like surprise in Anthea's voice. Living in a household with Mycroft, she was usually the very last person who anyone approached for assistance of any kind.

"Yes, but I don't want you to tell that tub of lard. It's... It's none of his business, all right?"

There was silence on the other end of the line for a moment before Anthea gave her assent.

Sherlock took a deep breath and closed his eyes, trying to collect his thoughts. "A few days ago... I had my first heat... with John. He's back – I don't know if Mycroft told you," Sherlock appended quickly. "And now I feel... odd. I've had difficulty leaving the house for several days now, even though there's no good reason for it. I don't know what's behind it, or how to handle it, which is why..." Sherlock wiped his eyes with his index finger and thumb, and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I wanted to know if you're familiar with the feeling and if so, what can be done to counter it."

There was silence on the line for several seconds; it went on for so long that Sherlock thought Anthea had set the phone down and walked away. Just as he took a breath to ask if she was still there, she spoke again.

"Yes... I'm familiar with it. You should take things slowly. That was your first real heat, Sherlock. Your body needs to process all of those impressions. Having your alpha close by can help, but... knowing you, that's not an option."

"No, absolutely not."

"I thought not. You Holmeses aren't exactly cuddlers..." she said, sounding downright wistful. "In that case... take something of his to bed with you. A piece of clothing, something that smells like him. A hot water bottle can also be helpful as it's reminiscent of his body heat. There's nothing else to be done, I'm afraid."

"This is ridiculous," Sherlock said, running a shaky hand through his hair.

"It is what it is."

Sherlock let out a frustrated huff. "All right, I'll try it. Thank you. And keep this to yourself."

"You've nothing to worry about."

"You've already texted him, haven't you?"

"Yes."

*

Three days later, Sherlock still hadn't left the house. He hadn't pilfered any of John's clothing or taken a hot water bottle to bed with him. Instead, he'd worked on his experiment and sent Lestrade a couple of texts regarding the McKenzie case, but the Detective Inspector hadn't had time to get another copy of the file to Sherlock. He suggested that Sherlock fetch it from the yard himself instead.

Sherlock had just laughed scornfully. It was clearly a thorn in Lestrade's side to enter John's "territory" without his permission, despite the fact that Sherlock had assured him multiple times that his heat was long over and done with. This was Sherlock's flat, not John's, but as per usual it was the alpha's opinion that counted for outsiders.

Seething with rage, Sherlock flung himself lengthwise onto the couch and typed out another text to Lestrade.

_If you keep this up any longer, you'll be solving all future cases on your own! – SH_

When Lestrade hadn't answered after a few minutes, Sherlock sent another message:

_Can't you send a beta? They wouldn't even have to set foot inside the building. – SH_

This time, Lestrade's reply came through quickly:

_OK fine. Won't be before tomorrow morning though._

Sherlock smirked and stood up to go over to the desk. He opened his laptop and started up the browser. It didn't take long for him to find what he was looking for, and he clicked on the button for another express delivery. Feeling quite pleased with himself, he snapped his laptop shut again and steepled his fingers under his chin.

If his body wasn't going to behave the way he wanted and his alpha was going to interfere with his work, the time had come to put his plan to get rid of John into motion.

** _Three years and five months earlier_ **

"Sir? Sir! Here's another one!"

DI Lestrade rose from where he was crouched, a dark expression on his face, barely able to tear his eyes away from the dead omega. He jammed his fists into the pockets of his trench coat and strode resolutely into the small adjoining room off the main space. The club was in the basement of a former warehouse in Camden, and was apparently frequented by omegas. The DI couldn't detect any other alphas than those on his team; all he registered was the weak presence of some betas.

The side room was a storage space with numerous shelving units and piles of boxes. Most of them appeared to be empty or contain only trash.

Sergeant Donovan directed the light from her torch behind one of the towers of boxes. Her lips were pressed together into a thin line and perspiration beaded on her forehead. The young beta had proven herself amongst the Yard's alphas, but she was often lacking the sangfroid which would have been so important for attaining a higher position. Still, Lestrade had no doubt that she had a successful career ahead of her.

The Detective Inspector noticed a foot in a red trainer peeping out from behind one of the boxes. He stopped in his tracks and inhaled cautiously, just enough to get some idea of what lay concealed behind the barricade of cardboard. He distinctly caught the scent of an omega; bonded and non-threatening. No trace of decomposition. Good. But also the acidic tang of vomit and the metallic aftertaste of blood.

Lestrade squared his shoulders and stepped around the boxes. In the corner behind them lay a young man with tangled, curly hair. His mouth hung open, yellowish strings of saliva criss-crossed his chin, and an empty syringe protruded from his arm. He was pale and so emaciated that Lestrade's protective instinct immediately flared up. He struggled to rein himself in and not pick up the pathetic creature and carry him outside.

"Sir?"

"Pulse?" Lestrade croaked, even though he already knew what the answer would be.

"Yes, it's weak but there is one."

"Good, then we have three live omegas and one body. Call in forensics, I'll check if this one has any ID."

"Sir, that..." Donovan hesitated, fixing her superior officer with a pointed stare. It wasn't usual procedure for alphas to examine living omegas, no matter whether they were bonded themselves or not. There were betas for that in every unit.

The first step was usually to check whether the omega had a bite mark, but that wasn't always possible right away. Alphas could lose control over themselves quite rapidly where injured or endangered omegas were concerned, which in turn could lead to them unwittingly destroying evidence in their efforts to protect the omega. For that reason, alphas at the Yard were required to apply a scent blocker under their nose before entering a crime scene – which Lestrade had neglected to do.

"Fine, I'll get Anderson," Lestrade acquiesced and stepped back. He could sense Donovan relaxing as she exhaled loudly. It almost sounded like a sigh of relief.

*

The forensics team took several hours to complete their work. Outwardly relaxed but inwardly on edge, Lestrade was nursing a cardboard cup of coffee which he'd bought at a nearby supermarket. He leaned against the squad car and watched the scene from a distance, bathed in blue flashing lights. The surrounding area had been cordoned off, but more and more curious onlookers were gathering behind the blue-white police tape emblazoned with "Crime Scene - Do Not Enter."

Donovan had also been sent away by the forensics technicians. She sat in the car, scrolling through various databanks on her laptop in order to try and identify the four omegas. The techs had only been able to confirm that all of the omegas that had been found were bonded, but not all of them had identification on them. One of the women had given them a fake ID, which had been confiscated. Charges would be filed against her in the next few days.

The three surviving omegas had been examined, had their medical needs attended to, and then brought to the Yard for questioning regarding what had happened at the club, and perhaps even find out a name, as the other one without an ID was the deceased. Lestrade didn't know yet whether she had died of an overdose or been the victim of an act of violence.

"Sir?"

Lestrade grunted an acknowledgment and leaned over to look at Donovan's screen.

"I've found the male omega. Look here." Donovan tilted the laptop toward the open side window and looked up at her boss.

"Holmes? So? There must be thousands in the city."

"Yeah, sure, but... the first name. Can't be many of those," Donovan said and indicated the column where the name was listed.

"Sher...lock? Yeah, that's pretty unusual. What does it say about his alpha? Does he have a record? Any violence?" Lestrade had to work hard not to sound too accusatory without having more information. But in his opinion, the condition the omega had been found in could only mean that his alpha didn't take proper care of him, and might even be abusive.

"Dr John H Watson, currently stationed in Afghanistan," Donovan read out. "They don't even have the same last name. Must be one of those modern relationships."

Lestrade snapped his mouth shut with an audible click of his teeth. Maybe it wasn't neglect after all. Could it just be the pain of separation? A doctor and soldier wouldn't let his omega deteriorate to that condition, would he?

"How long has he been away?"

"A year and a half..."

"He'll have had home leave to see his omega, won't he?"

"Hard to say, we'd have to request more documentation to find out."

"Is there anyone else? Family? Someone this Sherlock Holmes could go to? Anyone we can contact? He can't be living alone, is he?" Lestrade asked, frustrated.

"Hmm..." Donovan clicked through the tabs until she got to his family tree. "Oh... my... _God!"_

"What?!"

"He... he's not just any Holmes, sir. He's... Mycroft Holmes's younger brother!"

"Shit..." Lestrade growled, crumpled up the cardboard cup and tossed it onto the ground next to the car – in direct defiance of Donovan's reproachful look – before getting in.

*

Despite his tender years, Mycroft Holmes was an important cog in the machinery of the British government. Not only did he have a hand in numerous political affairs, he also had a direct line to the British Secret Service. The man's influence was well known amongst alphas, and no one dared step on his toes in any way, shape or form. An unannounced visit from Mycroft Holmes could well mean that heads would roll. Quite literally.

It was therefore not surprising that Lestrade's anxiety expressed itself in actual stomach cramps when he set foot in the interrogation room where Sherlock Holmes was waiting for him. The young omega was still under the influence. A quick blood test had revealed that he had taken a combination of hormones, neurotransmitters, and other chemicals. The drug had a depressive effect on omegas, which could lead to cardiac arrest in extreme cases. It also clouded the senses.

The cocktail was highly illegal, as omegas reacted especially strongly to it. Nausea and loss of consciousness were just two of numerous side effects. The paramedics had given him an intravenous bolus of saline solution back in Camden in order to flush the poisons out of his system as quickly as possible; they hadn't been able to do anything else for him.

Lestrade couldn't understand how a halfway intelligent person could do something like that to themselves.

"Sherlock Holmes," Lestrade said, setting the slim folder with Sherlock's lab results and other particulars on the table before sitting down across from the omega. He folded his hands and looked into the young man's bloodshot eyes. Dark circles were visible beneath his lids and his cheeks were sunken, his cheekbones as sharp as razorblades. "We've contacted your brother to come pick you up. Your alpha is stationed in Afghanistan at the moment, correct?"

"Why ask when you already have the answer?" Sherlock said, massaging his right temple with his index and middle fingers.

"When's the last time he was in London?"

"How the hell should I know?" Sherlock snapped, glaring hard at the Detective Inspector.

"Well... alphas usually go see their omegas when they have home leave, and – "

"We don't see each other," Sherlock cut in. "By mutual agreement."

"Huh. That's... uncommon," Lestrade said, perusing the contents of the folder on the table.

"Not at all. It's – "

Sherlock started and fell silent when a sharp knock sounded at the door. A young woman poked her head in, glancing back and forth between Lestrade and Sherlock. "Mr Holmes is here..." she said and pushed the door open further to usher Mycroft into the cramped room.

Lestrade leapt to his feet and offered Mycroft his chair, simultaneously signalling to Donovan to bring in another one. "Detective Inspector Lestrade," he introduced himself, uncertain whether he should hold out his hand for the other alpha to shake or not.

Mycroft ignored him completely. His eyes virtually drilled a hole through Sherlock as he slowly lowered himself onto the chair. "Would you be so kind as to fetch me a cup of tea, Inspector?"

"Err... yeah... yes, fine," Lestrade said, immediately understanding that he had been dismissed. "I'll still have to ask your brother some questions though, so... yeah..." Now embarrassed, Lestrade headed for the door, where he met Donovan returning with a chair and pushed her back out.

Sherlock watched the scene unfold until the door closed with a soft click. Then he finally looked up and met his brother's eye. His anger and concern was clearly legible in the creases on his forehead and between his brows. His scent had also been affected, with something bitter and acrid penetrating the familiar aromas of tobacco and tweed.

"What in the world – !" Mycroft struggled to rein in his anger and maintain his composure. He took two or three deep breaths and looked up at the ceiling before shaking his head wearily. "I should contact John right now and ensure that he comes to stop you from killing yourself."

Sherlock snorted with contempt. "You're always such a drama queen, Mycroft!"

"_I'm_ a drama queen?! Have you looked in the mirror lately? What the hell is going on with you? Don't you understand that – "

"Going on? With _me?!_ What's going on with the rest of the world, that no one understands how unfair this all is?"

"Sherlock." Mycroft had collected himself enough that his voice had resumed its normal condescending tone. The sharp, astringent scent had diminished noticeably to be replaced with something spicier. "You need to finally get it into your head that it's not on you to change the way this world works."

Sherlock pressed his lips together and stared at an invisible spot on the smooth surface of the table. "Don't tell him," he pleaded without looking at his brother.

"I won't. But only because I know that you'd rather kill yourself than submit to the word of an alpha," Mycroft said, rolling his eyes. "Just... please promise you won't touch that stuff again."

Sherlock shrugged, unconcerned. "I won't," he lied and crossed his arms.

Another knock announced DI Lestrade returning with two steaming cups of tea, which he set down in front of Mycroft and Sherlock. He then fetched the chair that Donovan had left outside the interrogation room, and sat down to join them.

"So... as far as we know, this was the first time that Sherlock has consumed an illegal substance. Since we didn't find any drugs in his possession, we can let him go with a warning this time." Lestrade directed his words at Mycroft. "But last night, another omega died from the same drug. She didn't have any ID on her, so we haven't been able to contact her alpha yet." After running down the facts, he took out a photograph and slid it over to Mycroft.

It was upside-down to Sherlock, but he recognized the same omega who had given him the drug the previous night. Her lips were blue and split, and her eyes were clouded over with a milky film. A strangely cold shiver ran down Sherlock's spine.

_That could have been me..._

"We need to know whether he spoke to her, or maybe even caught her name."

Mycroft examined the photo for a moment before flipping it around and sliding it over to Sherlock. There was a flash of something on his face. A warning or subtle hint that he also saw the potential for Sherlock to become a victim of the drug just like the dead woman.

"Well?" he prompted.

"Don't know her."

"Have you never seen her before, or simply never spoken to her?" Mycroft pressed.

Sherlock knew the question was a test. After all, he'd been studying Mycroft for years, learning how to be attentive to and analyse all the details of his surroundings. Even though Mycroft had never specifically given him any instruction, both of them knew that Sherlock was at least as good as he was at deducing certain events based on the tiniest clues.

"I might have seen her. There were a lot of omegas there."

"How many?" Lestrade asked.

"About twenty."

"Be more precise," Mycroft insisted.

"Eighteen," Sherlock said, glaring at his brother as he felt anger rising. He had the distinct impression he was being treated like a trick pony.

"Anyone you know by name?" Lestrade went on.

"No one."

"He tends to forget details like that," Mycroft said to Lestrade, a faint smile on his thin lips. The verbal thrust landed hard, but Sherlock wasn't about to admit it.

"All right, fine." Lestrade sighed and gathered up his papers. "If you remember anything else, don't hesitate to contact me. I'm usually here at the Yard." He took a business card out of his breast pocket and slid it – after a moment's hesitation – into the middle of the table, as if to say that it was up to Mycroft who ended up with the card.

"No wonder your omega's cheating on you," Sherlock muttered contemptuously.

"Excuse me?!"

"Sherlock!" Mycroft barked simultaneously with the Detective Inspector's protest.

"Oh, come on, Mycroft! You can smell it too. That undernote of rotten pineapple – doesn't go with him at all. He smells wrong, rancid, cuckolded! Even if he's in denial over it." Sherlock leaned back until he tipped the chair onto two legs, a self-satisfied grin on his face and his arms folded across his chest.

Mycroft looked over at Lestrade, who had turned a deep shade of red. Shame and anger were clearly wrangling for the upper hand, but neither emotion seemed to be winning.

"Please excuse him, Inspector. He's sometimes rather... awkward when it comes to social interactions."

Lestrade took his time clearing his throat, then picked up the file folder and stood. "Never mind. I'll... need your signature on some papers. If you wouldn't mind coming with me? Your brother can –" _stew in his own juices –_ Sherlock could practically hear the Inspector thinking – "wait here," was what actually came out as he went to the door.

"Of course."

Sherlock watched Lestrade hold the door for Mycroft. If he hadn't inhaled at precisely that moment, he might have missed the momentary shift in his brother's scent. The effect was too fleeting, gone again too swiftly to be analysed, but it etched its way into Sherlock's memory like acid.

_Hmm..._

+++

tbc


	11. Chapter 11

** _Three years and five months earlier_ **

John spent two nights in the infirmary. The blood workup they did on him wasn't able to prove that his drink had been spiked. They kept him for observation mainly on suspicion of a concussion, as he'd hit a sharp stone with his temple when he'd slammed onto the street. He was told that the wound had bled profusely and he could count his lucky stars that he'd had a qualified nurse with him.

He saw very little of the other soldiers. The two who checked in on him briefly only expressed their regret that John hadn't got his money's worth during that 'epic' evening, and promised that they'd visit the brothel again soon. John waved them off tiredly, but he was secretly relieved that the other alphas had all been too compromised to notice John fleeing the establishment with disgust. He had a gut feeling that his unit wouldn't take it well if he expressed all too much negativity over that evening.

On the morning of the third day, John was sitting on the edge of his cot waiting for the on-call doctor to approve his release. It was nothing more than a technicality, and John was annoyed that he couldn't simply leave the sickbed area and walk the couple of metres to his desk to get back to work. But he knew that he wouldn't handle it any differently if he were the doctor and the patient one of his colleagues. Rules were there to be followed.

The final checkup only took a few minutes, and involved a light being shone in John's eyes and the gauze bandaging around his head being replaced with a large plaster. The stitches would be taken out in a few days. He'd probably end up with a scar as a souvenir of the evening.

Still somewhat wobbly on his legs, John staggered to the showers to wash off the dust and filth of the past few days. Then he had a late breakfast and returned to work around lunchtime. There, he ran into Bill, who greeted him with a small, lopsided smile and red-rimmed eyes.

"Hey, everything okay?" John asked as he sat down on his chair and eyed the various papers and reports that had piled up on his desk with mistrust.

Bill shrugged and continued sorting bandages and sterile instruments into the appropriate drawers and cupboards.

"Shouldn't I be the one asking you that?"

John shook his head indulgingly and leafed through several pages of statistics before setting them aside and reaching for the medical reports he still needed to sign.

"You visited the infirmary every day and were the first responder. You know how I am. So come on, out with it. What's got you down?"

Bill closed the last drawer and heaved herself onto the consultation chair across from John's desk.

"Och," she sighed, resting her chin on her hand. "I spoke to Cilia and told her what happened. Or rather, I've been trying to for the past few days. Then last night, she was finally ready to listen without constantly bursting into tears or hurling insults at me. I have no idea if she's forgiven me yet. Sometimes I hate it so much being away from home and from her."

"Mm," John grunted. He understood how unpleasant Bill's situation was, and tried to find the right words to comfort his friend. "Well, at least nothing much happened and you got out of there in time."

"Yeah, thanks to you! I don't know what might have happened if you hadn't intervened." Bill rubbed her eyes wearily. "We're both so grateful to you."

John shrugged bashfully and scribbled his name on several papers on auto-pilot. "That's what friends are for."

"Cilia wants to meet you to thank you in person. We thought maybe we could invite you for... over Christmas or something..."

"That's very kind of you, but there's no need. Please don't put yourselves out. I only did what anyone would have."

"No, John, you really didn't. Plus..." Bill broke off and twisted her hands in her lap. She seemed uncharacteristially self-conscious all of a sudden and picked at a hangnail on her ring finger.

"Bill? What's going on?"

"We want to have a baby, you know?"

John frowned, nonplussed. "Okay...?"

Bill lifted her eyes to meet John's, sighing. "Well, you know how I can't inseminate Cilia as a female alpha?"

"You have noticed I'm a doctor, right?" John snorted, amused.

Bill grinned and rolled her eyes, acting much more like her old self all of a sudden.

"Yeah, sorry. It's just... this isn't easy for me, all right?"

John nodded and set his pen and papers aside to show Bill that she had his undivided attention.

"I don't want to adopt, John. I just can't imagine raising a stranger's child. And Cilia's opposed to artificial insemination. She says she doesn't want to be impregnated by some stranger's sperm and a turkey baster. It's silly, but..."

"But?" John thought he knew where this all was leading. He felt cold sweat gathering on his forehead and the back of his neck. The stitches on his temple started to itch uncomfortably under the plaster.

"We want someone we trust. Someone with integrity. Someone who's brave, smart, and strong. An alpha who isn't like all the others. Someone like you, John!"

"Holy shit!"

*

At first, John categorically rejected the proposition. But Bill remained steadfast and wouldn't let it go. She was still bringing it up six months later. In the end, John asked for some time to think about it, but after multiple discussions and weighing up the pluses and minuses, he eventually agreed to join Bill on her home leave over Christmas to meet Cilia.

The whole thing still unsettled him. He was uncomfortable with the thought of sharing a bed with his best friend's omega, even going so far as to conceive a child with her. Good Lord, he would be a father! Even if he had nothing to do with the child, as all of the rights and responsibilities would lie with Bill as the bonded partner. Nonetheless, he would have procreated – which had never been something he'd planned on.

And there was another omega who should be consulted. John reached an agreement with Bill that he wouldn't make any decisions before speaking with Sherlock. After all, he wasn't a free alpha; he couldn't simply act without consideration of his omega. Even if his bond with Sherlock only existed on paper.

After that meeting, John would go and visit his family while Bill spent the inevitable heat with Cilia. Although Bill herself was the one who had suggested John as a potential sperm donor, she would probably rip out his throat and his balls if he got anywhere near Cilia during a heat. A meeting much less intercourse with the other omega was therefore completely out of the question until it was over. He would wait until after the holidays to join Bill in Leeds and spend the rest of his furlough there.

John returned to London a few days before Christmas – for the first time since his foreign tour of duty had begun. It was only then that he noticed how much he'd missed this old hellhole. The maddening crowds, the overflowing tube cars, the bouquet of aromas that designated all of the different neighbourhoods. Pubs, green lawns, rain – even the surly denizens of the big city. London was where his omega was. London was home.

He bunked down at Harry's for the few days he was in town. As soon as he arrived, he lugged his duffle bag to her flat, got into the shower, and rinsed off the remnants of his travels. After that, he headed straight to the nearest tube station and rode to Kensington.

He paced nervously up and down on the pavement in front of the townhouse, going back and forth with himself over whether he should pop up out of nowhere unannounced like this and ring the bell. But what other alternative did he have? He'd been forced to delete Sherlock's number, and he didn't want to involve Mike. The risk was too great of getting involved in an unpleasant conversation. He simply had no way to let anyone know he was coming.

God, he was nervous. He was a doctor, a soldier in a warzone, and an alpha, and had absolutely no reason to be on edge, and yet his stomach was in knots. He was even sweating despite the winter chill. In the end, he squared his shoulders, ascended the few steps, and pressed the golden buzzer before he lost his courage and fled without accomplishing his errand.

He strained to hear the sounds coming from inside the house until the door was opened by an extremely attractive woman with shoulder-length brown hair and blue eyes. She was wearing a dark grey knit dress and had one arm curled around her rounded stomach. She mustered the visitor with an expression of mild interest. John estimated that she was at least seven months pregnant. Confused, he checked whether he was standing in front of the right building until the woman's scent hit him. She smelled of lilies, tonka beans, and resignation. John also picked up a hint of cold air and tweed. This was obviously Mycroft Holmes's omega.

John scratched the back of his head, embarrassed. Just like the first time he'd been at this house, he saw himself through the haughty eyes of a beautiful omega against the backdrop of these posh surroundings and felt utterly out of place. That is, until he remembered the position he held in society and straightened his spine.

"Hi, sorry to disturb you. My name is John Watson, and I'm – "

"I know who you are, Dr Watson," the woman cut in, and for the first time John thought he caught a glimpse of fire beneath the icy facade. He decided to forego polite platitudes.

"Is he here?"

The omega removed her hand from her stomach and folded her arms across her chest instead. "No, he isn't here."

"Well, could I wait for him?"

The woman snorted and curled her full lips into a sneer. "Sherlock doesn't live here anymore, doctor. He moved out shortly after the bonding. I suppose it shouldn't surprise me that you don't even know _that_ much about your omega." She gave John a look of disgust – as if he were a piece of chewing gum stuck to the bottom of her shoe.

John felt a sense of disappointment coupled with annoyance. He was quite surprised that Sherlock no longer lived with his brother. Of course, one of the reasons Sherlock had wanted to form the bond was to gain his independence. But hearing that his omega was living all on his own somewhere in London was very unsettling to John. He inhaled sharply and tried to remain calm.

"Could you at least ring him and let him know I'm here? I don't have a number for him, unfortunately, but there's a matter of some urgency that I need to discuss with my omega." John hoped that the subtle reference to hierarchical structure would prompt a favourable response from the other omega, but it seemed to have just the opposite effect.

"I'm quite sorry, but that won't be possible. Your omega is currently – " She stopped herself from speaking further. "At any rate, no, I cannot contact Sherlock. Good day, Dr Watson."

She was about to close the door when John stopped her by sticking his foot in the gap. "Please, wait. I know he doesn't want any contact with me, but... could you at least let me know how he's doing?"

Something akin to understanding passed across the woman's expressionless face for a fraction of a second before she shrugged carelessly.

"As one might expect. As well as an omega without his alpha can be. He's pig-headed, but then I'm sure you know that. Is there anything else?"

John shook his head and twisted his lips into a joyless smile. "Thanks for the information. And once again, I apologise for bothering you. Maybe you could keep my visit to yourself? I'm only in London on a short furlough, and if Sherlock doesn't want any contact from me, he needn't know I was here."

"Of course."

"Happy Christmas," John said as he turned to leave. "And best wishes for your baby."

The woman closed the door, and John went down the stairs with his shoulders hanging. Just as he reached the bottom step, he heard his name being called.

"Dr Watson, wait a moment." The omega hurried down the steps and handed John a business card. "Here, this is my alpha's private line. There's not much I can do myself, but if you're ever in London again and want to speak with Sherlock, Mycroft might be able to help you more than I can."

John thanked her, surprised at the gesture, and stuffed the card into his trouser pocket. He'd have preferred Sherlock's number, but this was better than nothing if there were ever an emergency.

*

The holidays were strenuous, but John was glad to be able to perform his familial duties after such a long time away. His proud parents wanted to hear every detail of what they imagined was his very exciting life, while Harry lounged moodily around on the couch, drinking cheap eggnog straight out of the bottle.

John's mother and father were greatly impressed by his stories from Kandahar and the various souvenirs he'd acquired in one of the souks at bargain prices. Harry just rolled her eyes and expressed her half-hearted thanks when John gave her her gift of exotic spices and tea.

John was happy to visit with his family, of course, but nothing was able to make up for the disappointment of not having seen Sherlock. He still hadn't come to a decision about Bill's request, even though he knew he was only using Sherlock's missing input as an excuse.

Two days after Christmas, John boarded the train to Leeds to go to Bill and Cilia's.

Bill picked John up at the station in her car. It was a sporty, top-of-the-line SUV. John started to wonder just how well off the Murrays were. At the base, with everyone walking around in military garb, eating the same food and sleeping in common quarters, they didn't talk a lot about material wealth.

The question became moot when Bill pulled up in the gravel driveway of a stately manor. The brick house was breath-taking with its turrets, peaked roof and gables.

"Hold on, just how rich _are_ you?"

Bill laughed as she got out of the car and opened the boot so John could remove his meagre belongings.

"And why are you only a nurse if you come from this kind of background?"

"Hey!" Bill pretended to be insulted and boxed John's shoulder with her fist. "There's nothing wrong with nurses. At least we take care of the patients while you doctors waste all your time with paperwork. Plus..." She broke off and gazed into the distance as if she were searching for an image in the past. "I curtailed my medical training when I met Cilia. Alphas in our family are expected to make something of themselves in the military, so this is the path I took to be able to get back home as quickly as possible. Two or three tours abroad should be enough to keep peace in the family."

"I understand," John murmured sympathetically. Bill's story reminded him of his own fate. In some ways it was diametrically opposed, but still characterised by social conventions and expectations.

"Never mind, let's not let it ruin the mood. Fortunately, the rest of the family's all gone over the holidays so Cilia and I could be alone. Come on, John. I can hardly wait to introduce you to my better half."

*

There was only one word to describe Cilia: enchanting. She was charming, friendly, and blessed with an innate demureness that would fill any alpha with pride. Not to mention gorgeous, graceful and delicate, a talented artist, and a superb hostess. She smelled wonderfully of daisies and spring dew, of lightheartedness and rock candy. Her laugh was contagious, and her skills in the kitchen phenomenal.

John indulged in a third piece of apple pie with freshly whipped cream while chatting animatedly with the couple, who sat plastered to each other's side, barely able to keep their hands off one another. There was always some part of one body that sought out contact with the other, or a glance seeking the attention of the other. John had rarely had the opportunity to be around a bonded pair in real life. What he saw now before him filled him with a sense of melancholy, well knowing that he would never be able to enjoy such intimacy and familiarity.

Both alpha and omega seemed to have sensed John's mood swing, as Cilia placed one dainty hand on top of John's and squeezed it affectionately.

"I simply cannot imagine how difficult it must be for you. For both of you. Your omega must be a complete idiot not to want to have you with him."

"Cilia!" Bill started to reprimand her omega, but John just shook his head mildly.

"It's fine, she's right."

Despite the flare-up of jealousy and wistfulness that John felt when he looked at the two of them, he made up his mind right then and there, heeding some gut instinct. If there was anything he could do to make these two even happier, he wanted to help.

"All right," he said in a steady voice. "I'll be your donor."

** _Present day_ **

The first forty-eight hours following the heat were pure torture. Every bone in John's body was sore, and he was so exhausted that he slept almost nonstop. His convalescence was only disturbed by sporadic trips to the loo and the consumption of large amounts of food.

It might be said, however, that John's life took a rather positive turn on the morning of the third day – a fact which his omega failed to notice. He got out of bed feeling as if he could uproot trees with his bare hands. He'd never felt better in his life. He hadn't even experienced such euphoria when he'd received his diploma from medical school or approval to join the military. He felt that his life had new meaning, and understood that the time for lamentation was finally past. He was an alpha, and the world was his oyster!

One glance at his bank account improved his good mood even further, even if he couldn't quite believe the number blinking back at him at first. However, a quick calculation confirmed the balance. He wasn't rich by any means, but his thrifty nature, well paid foreign missions, and lack of opportunities to spend money had helped him build up a nice nest egg. He set aside for the moment the thought that he might not even have had to ask Sherlock to take him in following his discharge, in order not to torpedo his high unnecessarily.

He played with the idea of inviting Sherlock to dinner as a way of saying thanks. They could go to some nice restaurant of Sherlock's choosing. Maybe they could set aside their differences, meet on an even playing field, and get to know each other better. After all, it was never too late for a fresh start.

However, when Sherlock shuffled out of his bedroom a short while later, glaring daggers at John from beneath tangled curls, poured the dregs from the coffee maker into a cup and barked, "What?" at John before disappearing back into his room, John dropped the invitation idea. Instead, he decided to do something for himself for a change.

Laden with shopping bags full of new clothes, a fresh haircut, and expensive cologne, John finally felt ready to venture onto the job market. He quickly threw together a CV and sifted through the job offerings for experienced physicians. Less than twenty-four hours later, he had a signed contract in his bag.

Yes, the fates were finally smiling on John Watson again. Even if they had graced him with an ignorant, arrogant, condescending and mulish omega. An omega he practically never saw because he'd barricaded himself in his room or buried his vain nose in dubious experiments. An omega who completely ignored the changes in John's appearance, his new job, and in fact John as part of the picture at all.

If he were to be honest with himself, that last point bothered him more than he wanted to admit. He simply couldn't understand why Sherlock was rejecting him so completely. Especially now that he wasn't whinging and complaining, and had taken charge of his life once more. He no longer needed a cane, his new clothes looked fantastic on him, and he finally had a job again. He was no longer a poor caricature of an alpha. He'd proven that to Sherlock now on several levels.

He couldn't comprehend how Sherlock could simply return to his old routine after the heat they'd shared. Why he didn't need to be close to John, while the alpha was pining after his omega. John felt as if he were on one end of a rubber band that was stretched to the breaking point because Sherlock was pulling as hard on it as he could. Whenever he took one step toward Sherlock, the omega took two steps back.

Didn't he ever look back on the hours of physical pleasure they'd spent together? On the rush of emotions, the way their bodies had joined in unison? On their inseparable connection and the earth-shattering orgasms that were beyond compare?

During the long, lonely night hours, John attempted to increase the intensity of his orgasms, despite knowing that it would be impossible to reproduce the ones he'd experienced during the heat. Still, he masturbated every night – at least once fast and hard. It was as if the heat had also increased his libido, which had fallen into a slump before. He tried to stimulate himself with porn flicks and memories of old flames, but any images he managed to conjure up always morphed into the form of his omega, writhing and twisting beneath him in ecstasy.

And his scent... God, Sherlock smelled fantastic! Naturally nothing nearly as intense as during the active phase of the heat cycle, and yet so exquisite that John frequently had to stop himself from burying his nose in Sherlock's neck whenever he was bent over staring into his microscope.

At least Sherlock hadn't insisted that John find his own place yet, which could be viewed as a positive development. Maybe John simply had to accept being ignored by Sherlock most of the time.

That morning, the urge to be close to Sherlock became so strong that John went to lurk by Sherlock's half-open bedroom door to watch the omega sleep for a while. Sherlock caught him right away, however, and inundated him with a barrage of ridiculous – if technically correct – deductions before he could make his escape.

That evening, home from work and alone in his room, John disconsolately rotated the small bottle of cologne in his hand, pulled out the stopper, and took a whiff. When he concentrated hard, he could smell something bitter in the background, almost completely hidden underneath the fresh top note. It made his nose tingle in an unpleasant way. Now that he'd discovered it, he couldn't ignore the pungent odour any more. He growled and pushed the stopper back into the delicate neck of the bottle, then tossed the cologne into the bin without further ado.

_Bloody omega!_

It went completely against John's nature to simply throw things away. Especially when he could have paid for two weeks' worth of groceries for the same money. He cursed the attractive beta in the perfume shop who had been so insistent when recommending the fragrance to him. She had assured him with a conspiratorial wink that the exclusive perfume wasn't just for betas; in fact, that alphas comprised the bulk of their clientele, and their omegas were head over heels for the scent. As a result, he'd bought a bottle of the stuff on the spot and applied it every morning before going to work.

He was surprised that Sherlock hadn't said anything about the cologne before now. After all, he'd been wearing it for something like two weeks, just like the new clothes and the well-coiffed hairstyle. On the other hand, the self-appointed master detective also seemed to have missed the fact that John left the flat daily to attend to his new job.

After that episode, Sherlock reverted to his familiar state of ignorance. He gave John the cold shoulder and immersed himself in one experiment or another with gusto. Of course John couldn't help but notice the overflowing kitchen table, the odiferous emanations of various chemicals, and the mounds of paper with Sherlock's notes scrawled all over. However, he saved his breath on any reproaches or rebukes, secretly pleased that Sherlock was finding ways to occupy himself at home rather than chasing down criminals with Scotland Yard.

When John returned to Baker Street one unseasonally chilly evening, he therefore expected to find Sherlock hunched over his microscope, mixing up various tinctures. Instead, he was crouched on the floor in front of a roaring fire in the hearth, wearing pyjama trousers and a dressing gown and reading through some papers with such single-minded focus that he didn't notice John coming in.

John withstood the urge to go over and ruffle Sherlock's unruly curls and headed instead for the kitchen, where he boiled some water for tea. When it was ready, he returned to the living room with his cup and sat in his chair, where he watched Sherlock paging through a file with complete absorption. Now and again, he would rub his lips with his fingers and let out some indefinable sound. If he had noticed John by now, he didn't show any sign of it.

"What are you reading?" John eventually asked when his curiosity got the better of him.

"New case," Sherlock murmured without glancing up.

"Ah... _oh..._"

John tried to stop the trembling in his hand when he set his teacup down with exaggerated care on the small side table and stood up. He approached Sherlock slowly, and as he did the latter tilted his head to look up at John with a surprised expression.

"A new case, hm? From that DI?"

John bent down, pretending to take a look at the documents. In reality, he was just using the excuse to get close to his omega to sniff him. It seemed that Sherlock had recently showered, as John didn't smell anything other than shower gel and Sherlock's own omega scent.

"Was that alpha here?" John asked sharply.

Sherlock instinctively pressed the file to his chest and stood up slowly. "No, he wasn't. And even if he had been, what business would it be – "

The omega fell silent when John's eye was caught by something on the floor that had been hidden beneath Sherlock's thigh and the dressing gown before. They both stared at the open McKenzie file with the gruesome crime scene photos on top and the workup of the suspect beside them. John picked up the file with disgust and reluctantly examined the photos.

The scents of tobacco and leather hit his nose. A familiar, red-hot fury flicked through his gut when he fixed his eyes on Sherlock, still holding the McKenzie file.

"So that alpha wasn't here?!"

"No!"

"Then you went to see him?"

"No, I didn't..."

"Don't lie to me, Sherlock! I can already imagine what happened!"

He took one threatening step toward Sherlock, who flinched back with wide-open eyes, still grasping the second file against his chest.

"You went to the Yard and played it up to him in order to get the file, didn't you? Did you flirt with him, Sherlock? Did he _touch_ you? Did you let him put his hands on you?"

"Don't be ridiculous, John..." Sherlock may have intended to project self-confidence, but the tone of his voice – at least an octave higher than normal – belied his words.

"Did he turn you on? Did it make you hot to smell another alpha? Is that what happened, Sherlock? Is that why you've just showered? Did you make yourself come thinking about him?"

John didn't give Sherlock a chance to defend himself. Instead, he flung the file into the blazing hearth with such force that orange sparks flew up. He then ripped the other file out of Sherlock's grip and hurled it in after the first. He only took a few seconds to enjoy the sight of the greedy flames before he turned on his heel and left the flat without looking back or saying another word.

*

It was well past midnight when John returned to Baker Street. He snuck into the bathroom to relieve himself and get ready for bed. Sleepy eyes stared back at him reproachfully from the mirror, his nose and cheeks red with cold.

A lengthy walk followed by a visit to the nearest pub had soothed his anger. Fortunately, he hadn't given in to his initial impulse to go to Scotland Yard and confront that alpha DI. The brisk night air had quickly cooled off his hot head, allowing him to think more clearly. Of course Lestrade hadn't been at the flat. John would have smelled a strange alpha right away. Sherlock would also never denigrate himself in order to be allowed to help out on a case: on the contrary, the Yard usually came to Sherlock looking for his help and assistance. Most likely some underling had brought the files over for Sherlock...

John was too tired to waste any more energy thinking about it. He just wanted to crawl into bed and not have to see or hear anything else. Luckily, he had the next day off and planned to sleep in. He could hear Sherlock's blankets rustling through the connecting door, even though the omega's scent was unusually weak tonight. John sighed and stopped himself from going to Sherlock to see if everything was all right and make apologies for his outburst. Instead, he went upstairs, undressed, and got into bed.

He couldn't have been asleep for more than a couple of hours before he was awoken by someone shaking his shoulder hard. He bolted upright and tried to get his racing pulse and heartbeat under control. It was a new moon, meaning that his room was almost completely dark; all he could make out was a faint silhouette.

"Sherlock? Is everything okay? Did something happ – _whoa_..."

John didn't get any further than that, as Sherlock pulled the blanket off, clambered onto John's lap uninvited, and started frotting against him. Omega essence soon coated John's genitals, which rapidly filled with blood in response. It was only then that his sleep-drunk brain registered the heavy scent hanging in the air. His mouth started to water, making it difficult to swallow. John automatically wrapped his hands around Sherlock's naked hips while his cock swelled from half to full hardness.

"How can you be in heat again so soon?" John murmured, bewildered. "There weren't any signs earlier this – _oh fuck..._"

John dug his fingers into Sherlock's soft flesh to anchor himself as Sherlock lifted his pelvis to position John's erection against his sphincter.

"Shut up and fuck me. _God..._ I need you..."

Both men moaned in unison when Sherlock let himself sink down much too fast, swallowing up John's cock inside. Warm fluid spurted onto John's stomach before he'd even bottomed out.

"Did you just come?!"

Sherlock ecstatic cry and his fingernails digging into John's upper arm were answer enough. In the semi-darkness, John could make out Sherlock's free hand encircling his own penis and start to jerk frantically up and down. Before John knew what was happening, he felt Sherlock's channel contract and another smaller amount of ejaculate landed on his skin.

"You're so damn hot... so bloody tight..." John rumbled, in awe.

He had no idea what was happening, but he wasn't about to turn Sherlock away. On the contrary: he strengthened his grip on the omega's narrow hips and pistoned upward into his white-hot body.

_"Ah!"_

The omega let out a loud gasp and circled his hips. After a few moments, he adjusted to John's thrusts and started to ride him with purpose. It only took a few seconds – John wasn't sure whether Sherlock's anus had relaxed at all yet – before the omega's muscles tightened up and he came for a third time. This time, only a few drops of semen dribbled out of the tip of his cock to mix with what was already on John's stomach. The erotic aftershocks in Sherlock's groin barely diminished, however. John could feel every millimetre of the muscle ring stretched almost painfully around his erection, as if the orgasm were never going to end.

"Fuck, Sherlock. How are you doing that?"

"No idea... _ah..._ can't stop... _hnngg..._"

Sherlock removed his hand from John's shoulder and buried it in his own hair instead. Throwing his head back, he sped up his movements, incessantly fisting his cock and moaning with abandon into the room.

Completely overwhelmed by the situation – he'd been fast asleep moments ago, and now he was being ridden like a stallion – John pushed himself up into a sitting position and put his arms around Sherlock. He tugged the rapturous omega close and buried his nose in Sherlock's neck to indulge in the sweet scent there.

He inhaled deeply, letting the wildflower honey, summer rain and nightshade wash over him until he noticed something peculiar, something that didn't belong there. It still smelled like Sherlock, but it was artificially magnifying his scent and had a bitter aftertaste.

He cautiously nudged Sherlock backwards. Sherlock went with the change in position, now placing his arms behind him on John's thighs to hold himself up, as he continued to move back and forth to drive John's alpha cock mercilessly into himself. A sight and sensation that made John's toes curl with pleasure. Heat gathered in his crotch, and he felt his knot start to throb. As if on auto-pilot, he grasped Sherlock's still hard cock and stroked up and down, playing with the foreskin and rubbing his thumb across the wet head.

"John... please..." Sherlock whined. "Your knot... I need..."

Another puff of the same alien scent hit John's nose, and he slowed his motions. Something was very wrong here; not just wrong, but _threatening_.

He let go of Sherlock's cock and examined his omega's face, contorted with pleasure.

"Sherlock, what's going on here? What have you done?!"

+++

tbc


	12. Chapter 12

** _Present day_ **

"Sherlock, what's going on? What have you done?!"

The concerned yet adamant tone in John's voice penetrated the thick fog in Sherlock's head. Pleasure and pain battled for dominance within his body, neither sensation willing to allow the other one to emerge victorious. His muscles quivering, Sherlock steadied himself on John's shoulders and lifted himself up, only to sink right back down again. The erection inside him brushed across his hypersensitive prostate, sending red-hot ecstasy and searing agony zinging down his nerve pathways.

He needed that knot, and he needed it now. Nothing else mattered. He would tear the flesh off his bones if necessary to get that knot inside him. Only then would this all end. He was utterly convinced of it.

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock flinched at the volume and sought out John's eyes. There, he found anger and worry reflected back at him. Fingers dug into Sherlock's hips and waist, holding him as still as possible.

"Talk to me!"

"I..." Sherlock tried to collect his thoughts, tried to string words together in a way that made some kind of sense. He felt sore and feverish. His head was buzzing, and his skin was damp with perspiration. He was shaking, and reached down to grasp his erection which was still pointing stiffly outward as if he hadn't already come several times that evening, but John batted his hand away.

"I... took something," Sherlock managed to grate out between panting breaths.

"What? What did you take?" John asked, immediately alarmed.

"Ex- experiment." Sherlock tensed his thighs in preparation for another pistoning motion, but his alpha prevented him.

"Hold still! I need more information, Sherlock. What kind of experiment is this? What's in it?"

"Phero- pheromone – blocker," Sherlock whimpered, changing his position so he could move closer to John. His pelvis twitched with pleasure as John sank even deeper into him.

"_Hng..._ Is that what I smell? It's not blocking anything, Sherlock. You just smell... _different_."

Sherlock felt the muscles in John's arms tighten to keep him from moving and tried to make some logical sense of John's words.

"This isn't a heat, is it? Something's gone wrong with your hare-brained experiment, and is doing the opposite of what you intended."

Forced to remain still and endure the situation, Sherlock writhed on John's lap and made a frustrated sound. He needed John's knot; why couldn't he understand?! It was too dark in the bedroom for Sherlock to make out John's face, so he couldn't see his expression to calculate how best to manipulate him in order to finally get what he wanted.

On the other hand, John's arousal had quite obviously not slackened off, judging by the rock-hard cock Sherlock was sitting on. He tested the boundaries, squeezing his arse muscles over and over, and heard John suck in a shocked breath.

"Stop that!" John snapped, struggling to get air into his lungs. But instead of obeying, Sherlock repeated his little trick, leaning forward at the same time. His dry lips brushed the corner of John's mouth and some stubble before finding their target. He dipped his tongue into John's mouth, then promptly tugged John's bottom lip between his teeth, growling softly.

John made a little sound of surprise before returning the somewhat clumsy kiss and answering Sherlock's tongue with his. His arms relaxed markedly and his steely grip loosened. One warm hand spanned Sherlock's waist, holding him close. The other hand slid up the back of Sherlock's neck, where fingers wove into tangled curls and pulled him deeper into the kiss.

Sherlock rested his elbows on either side of John's head and allowed himself to relax into the embrace. The sensations elicited by John's taste, his heat, his proximity, only masked the buzzing urgency he felt in every fibre of his being for a short time. But that didn't matter, for he also felt John's resolve crumbling, his cock twitching with concupiscence inside and his knot beginning to inflate.

"Need you," Sherlock said breathily between heated kisses and a well-executed hip swivel that had precisely the effect he wanted on John. "Your knot. Want you inside me."

John gasped for air and strengthened his grip on Sherlock again – this time, however, to anchor himself and not to stop his omega. "Sherlock..."

Sherlock bounced faster, pressing his forehead against John's and eliciting a moan from his alpha's lips. The urgency inside him suddenly kicked up a notch, pushing him harder and faster no matter whether his body was ready for a knot or not.

If he had been able to think clearly, he would have realised that his body wasn't made to take a knot outside of a heat. John's body wouldn't normally have even formed one in this situation, but the chemicals mimicked the usual progression of a heat so closely and at such an exponential rate that they were able to fool his metabolism. It was a shame that they had precisely the opposite effect than they were supposed to...

Sherlock's insides felt sore, rubbed raw. The pain started to gain the upper hand, but at the same time he couldn't make himself stop. As if he were being piloted by remote control, he continued to pursue a solution that most likely didn't even exist. If he had been of sound mind at that moment, he wouldn't have wanted to so much as contemplate the consequences this insane ride was going to have.

He felt the knot pushing against his already overstretched ring of muscle. The flow of omega essence that had been erroneously instigated by taking the experimental capsule, had stopped by now, leaving barely enough lubricant film to ease the process. Sherlock's arms and legs broke out in goose pimples as he pictured his body inevitably giving way when subjected to enough brute force.

His throat constricted with fear, but there was nothing he could do to stop it. No matter how hard he fought against it, he had long since lost control over himself. His body was dead set on satisfying its hyped up sex drive, no matter the cost. The erotic moans and sighs coming from him and John in an unbroken stream burned against his eardrums. His eyes filled with tears when the pain finally overtook the pleasure.

"Sherlock...?!"

The concern in John's voice broke Sherlock's heart. A warm hand touched his cheek, wiping the tears away that welled up over his lashes.

"Hurts... it hurts..." Sherlock whimpered weakly, gripping John's shoulders as hard as he could.

"Bloody – I'm so sorry! I had no idea that – Wait." John tried to extricate himself from the embrace, but Sherlock refused to get off his lap.

"Don't stop!"

"Be reasonable!" John griped, pushing Sherlock's hips back. "We're not going to continue if it's hurting you, Sherlock! I don't want to hurt you, damn it!"

John only stopped his efforts at resistance when he noticed that Sherlock had stopped moving up and down. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock again, easing his face down into the crook of John's neck. "Sshh..."

Exhausted, Sherlock nuzzled into John's warm, tear-streaked skin and inhaled his scent. Slowly, ever so slowly, the pain faded, and his heartbeat returned to normal. The fog in his head began to lift.

John lay very still; only his hands moved as he continued to caress Sherlock's bare back, tracing the shapes of his bones and muscles.

Although they'd already spent so much time in bed together during the heat, this moment felt even more intimate than anything previously. Perhaps precisely because it wasn't a heat. Nonetheless, the moment hadn't arisen out of any true feelings they had for each other; it was only down to the influence of that idiotic experiment. If anything, Sherlock's attempt at playing guinea pig would probably drive an even larger wedge between them. But that had been the purpose of the whole thing, Sherlock thought and sighed in resignation.

"Better?" John's voice broke through the quiet of the room.

"A little," Sherlock said, cautiously taking stock of himself. The all-consuming arousal had diminished noticeably, but he still didn't dare to move. "You're still hard..."

John made an affirmative sound and kept drawing circles on Sherlock's back. "Not exactly my fault..."

Sherlock tried to sit up, but John pushed him back down onto his chest. "Stay here for a little bit longer, all right? Just to be safe."

"All right..." Sherlock wiped the remaining wetness from his cheeks, contrite, and snuggled back down into John's neck.

"Tell me what that was all about," John said after a while, but Sherlock shook his head.

"Not now..."

*

Sherlock awoke in the early morning hours with an unpleasant twinge in his back. He was still lying on top of John – half kneeling, half on his stomach – but a blanket had been pulled over him at some point during the night. The heat radiating from John's body so close to him surrounded him like a cocoon of security. He sighed and nuzzled against John's stubbly cheek, only to jerk back a moment later when memories of the previous evening crashed over him.

John's cock had slipped out of him at some point, but the admixture of semen and omega essence on John's stomach had virtually glued their torsos together. Sherlock retreated, embarrassed, and tried to separate himself from John without waking him. Once he'd managed that, he got out of bed and tiptoed out of the room as quickly as he could. His body still felt raw and overworked.

He slunk down the stairs, naked, to the first floor. Once in the loo, he turned on the shower and waited for it to get hot. It was only then that he noticed the bruises on his arms, which must have been where John had held onto him so tightly. His genital area was also slightly inflamed. His penis and anus were both sore, tender to the touch, and flushed red.

Clenching his jaw, Sherlock climbed into the tub, closed the shower curtain, and scrubbed off the traces of dried body fluids. The warm water was soothing, but unable to wash away the shame he felt. How had everything careened so far out of control? He'd been so certain that it had worked...

He dried himself off disconsolately and wrapped a towel around his head. He squeezed toothpaste onto his toothbrush and lifted it to his mouth, pausing when he recalled the kisses from the previous night. A warm tingling sensation grew in his stomach, but he tamped it down and cleaned his teeth with more vigour than usual. Afterwards, he went into his room and got dressed. His dressing gown was still on the floor next to his bed, bearing obvious stains from the omega essence he'd uselessly tried to curtail the flow of the night before.

He picked up the article of clothing, disgusted, and chucked it into the laundry bin next to his dresser. Luckily, not much had gotten on the new mattress, but it might still be a good idea to have a look around for some kind of mattress protector for omegas... just in case...

When he emerged from his room and went into the kitchen, he found John standing there with one hip leaning against the kitchen counter, holding his phone in one hand and a cup of tea with tendrils of steam rising from it in the other. He was wearing a fluffy bathrobe and house shoes and looked tired as well as slightly annoyed.

Sherlock felt heat rise to his cheeks.

"Good morning," John said and poured a second cup of tea, which he slid across the counter to Sherlock before returning his attention to his phone.

"Morning. Thank you." Sherlock blew across the steaming surface of his tea, only to set the cup back down because it was still too hot.

"So... what's all of this here?" John asked, nodding at the kitchen table. It was littered with slides, petri dishes, pipettes, a mysterious white powder, empty pill capsule halves, various scraps of paper with formulas scribbled on them, pens, and who knew what else.

"I think you know their names, John," Sherlock responded curtly, folding his arms across his chest. He noticed just then that there was a package lying on the table addressed to him, which hadn't been there the night before. It must be the item he'd ordered yesterday. He assumed Mrs Hudson had brought it up to the flat earlier that morning.

Sherlock walked around the table and picked it up, gave it a shake, and smiled with satisfaction.

"Don't play games with me, tell me what's going on. You practically attacked me last night; I think I have the right to know what this is all about!"

Sherlock huffed irritably and twisted his mouth into a grimace. "I haven't made any progress on my pheromone blocker since we met. I was certain I'd had a breakthrough yesterday, but I had no way to test the results," Sherlock explained tersely.

"So you decided to take some of it yourself," John concluded.

"Yes. I'd tested the blocker on myself before, as you know. But nothing like last night..." Sherlock shook his head grimly. "I think I know what went wrong, but I'll need to conduct more – "  
"Oh no you won't," John cut him off.

"It's none of your business what I do or don't do, John!"

"I see it differently. You can't jeopardise your health like that. What would you have done if I hadn't been here? What if you'd been out and about when the unintended effects set in?" John asked, his voice rising as he spoke.

"I would have taken precautions," Sherlock said cryptically, and tore open the package. A rectangular box emerged bearing the image of an erect alpha cock made of silicon. Sherlock was pleased to note the way John's eyes went wide with incredulity.

"What the – "

Sherlock opened the box and took out the realistic looking dildo so he could examine it from every angle. The glans, veins, and even the retracted foreskin were lifelike in every detail. At the base was an inflatable knot that could be controlled with a small remote device.

"Hm... it's a little smaller than yours, by my estimate. But that doesn't matter," Sherlock said, poking the deflated knot. "As long as it does what it's supposed to!"

John's face had turned beet red by now. A vein throbbed prominently on his forehead, and he wore a thunderous frown. "Do you really think you can scare me off with that thing?" he gritted out.

Sherlock regarded him dispassionately. "I told you from the beginning that I had no intention of living with an alpha. The fact that my body is of a different opinion is simply a problem that I intend to solve – without you. Aside from that, you apparently no longer need my support. You have found a well-paying job and were even willing to part with some of your hard-earned money to splurge on something for yourself. You are also no longer dependent on that ridiculous cane. Things can't be going all that poorly for you, in other words."

Sherlock casually caressed the naturalistic shape of the dildo. "I don't need you, and you don't need me. The only thing I expect of you is that you keep your end of our bargain."

John exhaled with a huff and curled his hands into fists. "So you're going to continue with your experiment until... what? Until you've completely destroyed your scent? Do you really think people will treat you differently if you smell like chemicals? If you just smell _wrong_? Like some kind of freak?!"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes ominously. "Don't call me that!"

"What; freak? What would you call someone who opposes his own nature as much as you do? Who goes to any extreme in order not to have to function like every other human being on the planet? Hm?!" John crossed his arms defensively and swept his eyes from the top of Sherlock's head to his toes. "You try everything to be different and have your own snooty way rather than fitting into a role. What's so hard about being an omega then?"

"You have no idea what you're talking about, John..." Sherlock hissed and turned on his heel.

John sighed and tossed his hands in the air, exasperated. "And of course you run away. Going back to your beloved DI so as not to have to face your life? Does he come sniffing around you when I'm not here? Does he even know what he's getting himself into?"

"You're an ignorant moron, John Watson! I've never been alone with him. And I haven't set foot outside the flat in two weeks, in case you haven't noticed!" Sherlock shouted angrily.

The outburst shut John up immediately. He looked at Sherlock, nonplussed, trying to suss out the truth in what he'd said. "What? Why not?"

"Because... I don't know! I can't even trust my own body anymore. Do you, as an alpha, have any idea how that feels?!"

"Why didn't you say anything before?" John asked, stuffing his phone into the pocket of his dressing gown.

"What good would that have done? Everything's apparently going swimmingly for you now: you've finally emerged from underneath your rock and found a job that suits you. As for me on the other hand... I can't stop my mind from spinning, and you've taken away any chance I might have had to distract myself with cases because you can't get your frankly idiotic jealousy under control! When we both know that you don't take faithfulness in a relationship all that seriously!" Sherlock snapped and whirled around to leave the kitchen, this time for real.

"What's that supposed to – Hey, wait!" John grabbed Sherlock by the wrist and held him back. "What are you talking about?!"

Sherlock looked down at John with a nasty smile. "You can stop lying, John. I know you've had sex with other people, more than once. I had a front-row seat every time: I felt what it was like for you to drag one of those brainless betas back to your quarters. I felt it whenever you were aroused by other omegas and wanted to bond with them."

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders dispassionately. "Yes, we agreed not to have anything more to do with each other after bonding, and I'm the last person who would want to rob you of your freedom. But forming a bond with you only transferred me from one prison to another – and I'm sick and tired of it!" Sherlock tore his arm away with more force than necessary and glared daggers at John.

"D'you know what? Good! I'm sick of it too! You've been picking at me the whole time, as if this were all _my_ idea. I was just trying to do you a favour! But you don't see that because you're so wrapped up in yourself you can't see anything other than your own problems." John headed for the door. "I'm going to have a shower and then go to work. I'll look for a new flat directly afterwards."

And with that, John left the kitchen.

*

Sherlock's anger and shame didn't dissipate when he heard water running in the bathroom, nor when he heard John stomp up the stairs to the upper storey and stuff his meagre belongings into a bag; much less when the alpha exited the Baker Street house with a slam of the front door and not another word.

Sherlock's stomach clenched and began to roil with nausea. Any relief he might have hoped for failed to materialise. Was that it? Had John left? For good?

Sherlock stood in his bedroom, rooted to the spot, and stared at the unmade bed. Something in him wanted to go upstairs and check how much John had taken with him, to see whether he really might not be coming back. And something else in him was scared to death of what that might mean.

Sherlock unclenched his fingers, which were gripping his upper arms in exactly the spot where he already had bruises. The pain wasn't that intense, but it did manage to ground him a little. He needed to keep a cool head and consider what his next steps should be.

What was he going to do?

If John was truly gone; if he wasn't going to come back, then... Sherlock swallowed hard. He would continue to feel what John did in certain situations. If the past had taught him anything, it was that nothing was about to change in that respect. It was going to remain difficult to ignore those things without resorting to some means of assistance. Means which would cloud his senses.

Sherlock thought back to the times in which he'd regularly dulled his connection to John. The memories came with mixed feelings. He turned on his own axis and went into the living room, where he searched all of the flat surfaces, underneath papers and magazines, even behind the couch cushions, but he couldn't find his cigarettes anywhere. He looked around, feeling jittery, pivoting from one side to the other as his eyes leapt from one object to the next, on the lookout for possible hiding places.

The air burnt his lungs and his heart was racing. He dug his fingers into his hair and crouched down to make himself small. The sensation of tugging on his follicles and the desperate grunts emerging from his throat didn't help.

When a tentative knock sounded, Sherlock's head darted up in relief. But it wasn't John standing in the doorway: it was Mrs Hudson. The elderly lady peeked in through the gap of the partially open door. Her eyebrows were drawn together with worry, and she took in the scene before her warily. She held a slim book in one hand.

"Sherlock? Everything all right?"

Sherlock sighed wearily and stood up, straightening his collar and his cuffs before facing the woman.

"Of course, Mrs Hudson. Whatever should be wrong?" he asked with a nonchalance he didn't feel.

"I heard the two of you arguing again and wanted to see if everything was all right. Did John leave?"

"I assume he's gone to work," Sherlock stated, clearing his throat lightly. There was no reason to worry his landlady just because his alpha might have finally buggered off once and for all.

"Oh yes, that's right. I'm so happy that boy's found a job. Times are tough – even for alphas. You should cook him something nice for dinner tonight!"

"Why the hell would I want to do that?!" Sherlock said, glad that he could fall back on his previous indignation at such suggestions.

Mrs Hudson wasn't put off by Sherlock's attitude. She simply pressed the book more firmly to her chest and smiled cheerfully as she said, "I used to love cooking for my husband, back in the day. Of course, I knew all of his favourite dishes and enjoyed watching him eat with such gusto."

"You mean the husband you wished the death sentence on?" One of Sherlock's eyebrows lifted inquisitively as he observed the beta woman's face take on a slightly guilty, abashed expression.

"Oh, that was something else altogether! He was a horrible, horrible person and got what he deserved. That doesn't change the fact we also had some very nice times together."

"John is not my husband, Mrs Hudson. He's my alpha. It's completely different."

"Is it?" Mrs Hudson said, placing one dubious finger against her lips. "Of course, as a beta I'm not in a position to make judgments, but on the whole a bond works very much like a marriage. Two people who love and respect one another... it's all very sweet!"

"It has nothing to do with love, Mrs Hudson. It's nothing more than a biological reaction between two bodies." Sherlock crossed his arms defensively over his chest and gave her a dark look.

"But isn't that always the case?" Mrs Hudson said, tilting her head to one side.

"What...?"

"As I said, I'm _just_ a beta, but... I've found that all forms of attraction are based on biological or physical reactions that we're not always fully aware of. Smell plays a big role in mutual attraction amongst betas as well – we simply aren't conscious of it as such. Oh, it's certainly another question whether a long-term relationship can develop from those conditions. But it's one that can be worth exploring," she explained.

"That's... that..." Sherlock frowned as he thought about it. "But how?" he finally asked. "How do you know whether a relationship can last? Whether your partner feels the same way you do? I mean, you don't tie yourselves to one person for the rest of your lives, from one day to the next, without knowing anything about them!"

"No... we don't know. We take the chance of being hurt, of our feelings not being reciprocated and our heart being broken. I know it may not be the way things are done these days, but it used to be quite common for social alliances to be primarily formed through marriages. It didn't matter whether the two people involved were attracted to each other or not – that was entirely irrelevant for the families who were dependent upon such contracts, or who profited from them. At least alphas and omegas always feel a natural attraction to each other..." Mrs Hudson mused.

Sherlock turned away with a snort. "I can't imagine those people were very happy..."

"Not all, to be sure, but more than you might think. After all, their livelihood was secured, they had a roof over their head, a family... and they took care of each other. Most didn't marry for love, Sherlock, but love is something that can emerge with time. Something that needs to grow."

"What if it doesn't?" Sherlock asked, his back still to Mrs Hudson.

She didn't answer for a moment. Sherlock realised that she'd gone over to the chair where John usually sat. When she spoke again, her voice came from the doorway.

"And what if it does?"

Sherlock had no idea what to say to that. He stared down at the carpet between his feet until he heard the door to Mrs Hudson's flat being shut downstairs. When he looked at the armchair, he saw the book Mrs Hudson had been carrying before. He picked it up and read the title.

_How to Fall in Love. Post-Bond Version for Alphas and Omegas. 32nd Edition._

*

Sherlock flipped through the book once before hurling it into the nearest corner. It was laughable. No more, no less.

After a brief foreword, it consisted of several questions and exercises for the proposed couple, all intended to increase intimacy between the two partners little by little. The target audience was mainly alpha-omega couples who had bonded in a precipitous manner and were now having problems forming an emotional connection. The fact that the book had gone through 32 printings was evidence of it being a bestseller.

Every conceivable step along the path of physical intimacy was listed, from holding hands to intercourse outside of a heat. Less intense experiences were also included, like going to the cinema or having dinner together.

Sherlock couldn't imagine doing any of that with John. Especially not now, when the emotional distance between them couldn't possibly get any greater. He lay on the couch in the dark, staring grumpily at the ceiling, which was illuminated intermittently by cars passing by outside.

John hadn't reported in all day. No calls, no messages, not even a tip via Mrs Hudson that he was all right. It was long past midnight now, and Sherlock wondered where John would be sleeping. Had he found someone to take him in for the night? Had he gone to a hotel?

Or maybe he was with that beta who had batted their eyes at him. The one he'd bought the cologne for. Maybe he was seeking comfort in their arms – or rather, in them. Maybe he wanted to let out his sexual frustration that way, in the wake of the rather disappointing previous evening. And who could blame him?

Sherlock threw himself onto his side and pushed his head into the corner between the seat cushion and the back of the sofa. The mere thought of last night filled him with lust and anger. How could he have been so stupid as to take the pill without any further experimentation? The initial stages of the false heat had set in so quickly that there was nothing he could have done to stop them – even if he'd known how.

He shuddered to recall the way he'd taken himself in hand first in order to release some of that excruciating desire. But nothing had helped. Nothing but John and his unconscionably captivating scent. In the end, it hadn't even been the knot that had given his body some degree of relief; it had simply been being close to John.

_Just as Anthea predicted..._

What would happen to him now if John didn't return? Would the heats stop? Or would he run after the nearest alpha he could find – the nearest knot – to get through those unbearable periods? How far would his body force him to go, to do things he didn't want, now that he had experienced a full heat with his alpha for the first time?

And how long would it be until the next one?

*

John wasn't back by the next day, nor the day after that. Sherlock was on the verge of ringing him to make sure he was all right, but he managed to restrain himself. Even if he was practically being devoured from inside for want of his alpha's presence. If John had been in danger, he was sure he would have felt it.

After all, it wouldn't be the first time...

** _Three years earlier_ **

"What makes you think it was murder?" DI Lestrade asked as he examined the reports and photographs of the boy that were scattered across his desk.

"The shoes!" Sherlock cried in exasperation as he practically wore a hole in the carpet of the tiny office with his incessant pacing.

"Shoes?" Lestrade repeated, puzzled, and shuffled through the photos. There was one of the boy's face, his hair still wet and his lips blue. Other pictures showed the crime scene – an indoor swimming pool in Brighton belonging to a private school – and the changing room, where some of the boy's clothes had been photographed piece by piece, as well as his backpack.

The boy – Carl J. Powers, beta – had suffered a severe cramp during a swimming competition and drowned. But Sherlock Holmes, the hyperactive omega whom Lestrade couldn't seem to get rid of ever since the incident had occurred, had a different opinion.

"I don't see any shoes..."

"Precisely!" Sherlock stopped in front of the desk and put his hands on his hips triumphantly, but Lestrade still had no idea what the hell he was talking about.

"So?" he asked with a combination of annoyance and indignation.

Sherlock lowered his arms and rolled his eyes dramatically. "It's no wonder at all that your omega's left you, as dull as – "

"Hey!"

"How many boys do you know who would willingly step outside without any shoes on?"

"Oh … right, yeah. So where are his shoes?"

"Now you're starting to ask the right questions," Sherlock said with a crooked grin.

*

It was a fantastic feeling to solve cases. Scotland Yard supposedly employed the brightest minds in the country, but Sherlock had come to the conclusion that they would be up the proverbial creek without him.

After Detective Inspector Lestrade had extracted him from that seedy basement with the dead omega who had given him the drug for the first time, Sherlock got his kicks from unsolved criminal cases. Most of the time.

It had become difficult to find the drug – nicknamed 'Seven' – on the streets anymore. The nameless omega in Camden wasn't the only one who had fallen victim to it. Lethal overdoses had gone up dramatically over the past few months, until the fabricators realised something had gone wrong during production.

It was mainly saline solution with exactly seven percent of its composition being various hormones and neurotransmitters that had a calming effect on omegas in particular.

Interestingly, alphas who consumed the same concoction became aggressive and violent, which presumably had to do with the fact that the drug was largely based on alpha hormones. Sherlock found this all wonderfully ironic, and it gave him a little extra bit of pleasure every time he emptied another needle into his vein.

It didn't happen often, but there were days on which he couldn't think clearly. Days when he felt his bond with John – and the distance between them – so strongly that everything else faded into the background. Those were the only times he resorted to Seven, and he only took just enough to be able to bear the all-consuming yearning.

In the rare cases when he couldn't find any Seven, he turned to other drugs. Depending on how the day was going, or what was on offer, he settled for uppers like coke and speed, or else downers like cannabis and – his preference – morphine. However, the effect of those drugs wasn't nearly as satisfactory as Seven, the side effects more bothersome, and his impaired condition more obvious.

Lestrade had only caught him once after the Camden incident with a tiny amount of morphine, upon which he had immediately informed Mycroft. Sherlock wouldn't forget the dressing-down that had followed as long as he lived. The two alphas had berated him in concert, a heavily pregnant Anthea sobbing in the background while Sherlock tried to snap his muzzy brain back to alertness.

In the end, Mycroft had placed him under house arrest, enforced by two of his security guards. Sherlock hadn't taken kindly to that, and bolted at the first opportunity.

They found him several days later, half-starved and covered with bloody scratches and bruises in some back alley. He'd never told anyone that he'd got into it with several denizens of the streets, and ended up with the short end of the stick every time.

Lestrade then made the house arrest official with the assistance of a family court judge of his acquaintance, with the result that Sherlock was relegated to stay at his brother's for sixty days. Subsequent to that, there was to be an appointment with a mediator who would decide whether Sherlock was allowed to return to living on his own or not.

Sherlock had only submitted to the process because he'd made Mycroft promise not to contact John. Otherwise, it would actually have been John's responsibility to ensure Sherlock's care – and recalling him from Afghanistan for that purpose would only have meant the beginning of the end...

During the first three days at the Holmes residence, Sherlock locked himself in his old room and only communicated through the closed door. After a while, however, he got so bored that he occasionally sought out Anthea's company.

One afternoon, Sherlock was lying on the couch in the living room, dangling his long legs over the side with his head hanging down off the seat. The blood pooling in his brain gave him a sense of weightlessness, and the upside-down image of the woman sitting in the wing chair looked downright serene. Sherlock tried to decipher the title of the book she was reading, but couldn't make heads or tails of it.

He formed the individual syllables silently with his lips but couldn't quite get them. When Anthea noticed his amateurish attempt, she smiled mischievously and read the title in a perfect accent.

"_'Poskromienie złośnicy'_. That's Polish for 'The Taming of the Shrew'."

"Ah... Why don't you read the original version?"

Anthea shrugged and turned to the next page. Sherlock could tell by her eye movements that she wasn't reading, though. "Your brother learned the language a while back. I thought it prudent for me to do the same."

"_Why?_" Sherlock sat up, scarcely trying to conceal the horrified bewilderment in his voice.

Anthea peered over the edge of the book, staring at him with her steely blue eyes. "Because he _likes_ the language," she hissed.

The answer only confused Sherlock further than their brief exchange already had. "That doesn't make any sense! I mean, if you'd at least said that the language appeals to _you_, all right, but this?! Did he ask you to? Or are you only doing it to gain his attention because he can't stand spending a single day in the same house as you?"

Anthea closed the book loudly and pushed it away onto the coffee table, folded her hands over her rounded stomach, and took a deep breath. "I'm not the source of your frustration: you are. I would appreciate it if you didn't let out your feelings on me and the baby. It's about time that you learn your actions have consequences – and not only for you."

Sherlock flung himself angrily back down onto the couch and turned his back on her.

"You're not twelve anymore, Sherlock, so stop behaving like it!"

Sherlock rolled onto his stomach and propped himself up on his elbows. His hair had grown too long, and covered his eyes when he tried to communicate all of his anger at Anthea through his glare. "Should I act like a model omega instead and adopt all of my alpha's hobbies even though I haven't the slightest interest in them?"

Before Anthea could respond, the two were interrupted by a door opening. Mycroft and DI Lestrade entered, both apparently in a splendid mood. They were laughing, and only stopped when they saw the sober demeanours of the two omegas.

"Anthea, Sherlock..." Mycroft said coolly, wiping the smile off his face in an instant. "The Inspector has brought something for you, Sherlock. An unsolved case... I believe this little puzzle might be a nice diversion for you, as long as you're here."

Sherlock leapt to his feet without needing a second invitation, and fairly ran across the room to the two men. He tore the file Lestrade had brought out of his hands, and eagerly pawed through it. A series of macabre images and crime scene reports greeted him. Sherlock shuffled to the other side of the room, already lost in thought, and settled down on the floor in front of the window, away from the other three.

It wasn't until he became aware of the odd smell tickling his nose that he looked up. It was the same scent he'd picked up that one time at the Yard.

Mycroft was still standing at the door next to Lestrade, speaking more animatedly than ever before about some recent political events on the world stage that Sherlock had never heard of, while Anthea was nervously wringing her hands as she observed the two alphas.

Sherlock watched with fascination as Lestrade looked up at Mycroft, then quickly turned his gaze to Anthea. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, but it didn't appear genuine. More... apologetic – despite the fact that he'd neither said nor done anything that might have hurt Anthea in any way. The Detective Inspector said his good-byes shortly thereafter, shaking hands with Mycroft before leaving the house.

Mycroft turned to the two omegas with a somewhat awkward air, only letting his gaze skim over them. He slotted the hand he had shaken the DI's with into his jacket pocket.

"I'll … be going up to my office now," he said, and closed the door behind himself.

"_Bingo_," Sherlock said, putting exaggerated emphasis on each syllable. He kept his eyes on the massacre in the file in front of him, rather than on the one in the living room. He didn't look up until he heard quiet sobs. Anthea had turned her face away and was visibly struggling to get her tears under control.

"Anthea...?"

"Don't say anything... please..." she begged in a quavering voice as she caressed her stomach with her left hand. "I don't want to hear it."

Sherlock sat helplessly on the floor under the window and waited until Anthea had collected herself a bit. She blotted a few tears away with the sleeve of her cardigan before looking in Sherlock's direction. Her eyes were bloodshot and her mascara had smeared a little.

"At least... at least _your_ alpha shows some interest in you," she said and heaved herself up out of the chair in order to leave the living room. "He was here when you were dragging yourself around the streets of London. But don't worry, I didn't tell him about any of that."

Sherlock gaped in shock at the door as it closed behind her.

*

That evening, Sherlock was disabused of that notion. Following his conversation with Anthea, Sherlock had withdrawn to his room and lain down on the bed. Now he was contemplating what it might mean that his brother was apparently showing interest in another alpha.

He'd never seen anything like that before. Was it even possible? An alpha with another alpha. It was... strange. It was wrong. Unnatural.

Sherlock had no idea whether Lestrade felt the same way his brother did. He hoped not, as he had no idea how to deal with two of that sort.

He tried to imagine what it would be like to be with another omega, but promptly discarded the fully absurd notion. Lost in his own thoughts as he was, the sudden sensations coming from John surprised him that much more.

He could virtually smell and taste the omega John was with himself. Daisies, spring dew, lightheartedness... and rock candy? What in the world? Sherlock felt all too clearly how attracted John was to the scent composition and overall presence of the omega.

Anxiety but also excitement coupled with a kind of electrical tension lay in the air. He could practically hear the omega weaving a spell over his alpha with gentle words; feel the way they stroked John's arm. Goose pimples marched across Sherlock's body, triggered by the phantom touch.

_No, don't do this to me!_

Images of John in an erotic embrace with a faceless omega flooded Sherlock's mind. Feeling angry and betrayed, Sherlock tossed and turned in his bed, barely able to get enough air into his lungs. His muscles were so tight he could already anticipate the soreness that would come later. He flung himself petulantly onto his other side and tried to block out the images.

_John! _he chanted to himself, each time more forceful than the last, until he pictured himself materialising directly in front of his alpha and shoving him away from the omega; reaching inside John and squeezing his stomach and heart with his fists until John backed away in shock.

Sherlock had no idea how long his internal battle went on, but in the end he lay shaking in bed, soaked with sweat, and wishing for nothing more than a large dose of Seven...

+++

tbc


	13. Chapter 13

** _Two years and eleven months ago_ **

John had the opportunity to get to know Cilia better over the two weeks following Christmas. He still wasn't comfortable with the idea of inseminating the omega, but she and Bill came across as such a fairy tale couple with only one thing standing in the way of their happy ending: a baby. Given that John wasn't able to fulfil his own dream of a loving alpha-omega relationship, and this couple saw him as a suitable donor, he wanted to help.

They didn't want to carry out the coupling in Bill and Cilia's bedroom or in the room where John was staying. Instead, they settled on another guest room in the back of the house, far from the areas Bill and Cilia frequented so that the scent of the conjugal act wouldn't linger where they could smell it. The situation was difficult enough for everyone concerned, even though the couple – especially Bill – continued to assure John that he had nothing to fear from her as a rival alpha, and that everything would happen with mutual consent.

Bill had now made herself scarce somewhere, while John was wearing a hole in the thick, burgundy-coloured carpet in the hall. He took one last deep breath before finally opening the door to the guest room where Cilia was already waiting for him.

The young omega was sitting on the edge of the freshly made double bed, but hurriedly stood up when John entered. Bashful, she lowered her eyes toward the floor and twisted her delicate fingers anxiously.

Cilia looked enchanting in her floor-length silken nightdress, her hair hanging loose in soft curls tumbling down her back. On the other hand, her getup made her look so much like a maiden dressed for a ritual sacrifice that John was torn between laughing and making a break for it. In the end, he just hoped that the omega didn't see herself in that role, because he hated the thought that she might feel she was being forced into anything.

Of course John understood that this situation was new for her, and might even be scary, but he hoped she would find pleasure in the act and not see it simply as a cumbersome performance of some duty. He would at least try his best to make the experience as beautiful and pleasurable as possible. Even though he was nervous himself and the whole thing didn't quite sit right with him, he was an alpha and needed to exude a sense of strength.

John squared his shoulders and approached the omega, who was still standing in the middle of the room looking at the floor, making no move toward him.

"Cilia?" John asked gently, placing two fingers under her chin to lift it so that she would look at him. He looked into her big, brown eyes and tenderly stroked her cheek with his thumb.

"Are you sure this is what you want?"

The omega nodded, if a bit hesitantly. The assent was enough for John to dip his head to seek her lips. But before he could kiss her, she turned her face away and gave her head a barely noticeable shake.

"No kissing. I can't. And I promised Bill..." she whispered.

"Of course," John agreed immediately, pushing her hair back instead so that he could nuzzle the crook of her neck with his nose.

He inhaled the aroma of daisies and rock candy. A scent as sweet as Cilia's personality, it reminded him of light-hearted spring days. It was wonderful, and yet it couldn't hold a candle to the irresistible, mysterious fragrance that John had smelled from Sherlock all those years ago; a scent that had intoxicated him, and was now irretrievably woven into the substance of his being through their bond.

John quickly pushed the thought of his omega aside, instead slipping out of his dressing gown, which he let drop to the floor. He was naked underneath, except for a pair of dark blue boxers. His lips brushed across Cilia's throat, and he felt her swallow heavily. John captured her hands in his and placed them on his shoulders.

"You can touch me..." he rumbled in her ear and opened the topmost of the three buttons of her nightdress to expose her bosom.

Her fingers dug painfully into his biceps when he undid the final button and gently swiped his thumb across her nipple, which stood to attention at his touch.

"Don't..."

The lightness in Cilia's scent faded into the background. She now smelled fearful, reminding him of the panicked omegas in that horrid Afghan brothel. He removed his hand from her breast and took a step back to look at her.

"Are you quite sure this is what you want?" he insisted.

The omega nodded quickly and placed her hand on his arm in a placatory gesture.

"Yes, it's just... I've never done anything like this before. Except with Bill, of course. And you're not just another alpha, you're also a man. I'm so awfully nervous, and... please, let's just continue. I only want..." She cut off her flustered babbling to retreat to the bed and lie down. Then she held one hand out toward John. "Are you coming?"

John frowned and assessed the omega with a searching look. Ever since he'd seen what alphas were capable of in that 'pleasure palace', he was constantly worried about abusing his power and social standing to force those who were lower in the hierarchy into doing things they didn't want. But in the end he was here because Cilia wanted him to be, and the omega wasn't in heat.

John eventually nodded his agreement, squeezed his hands into fists to release some of the tension, and went over to the bed. Before he scooted up to Cilia on the mattress, he hooked his fingers into his underpants and pulled them off. He couldn't help noticing the way that Cilia's eyes widened in surprise when her eye fell on his alpha cock. Although he was still flaccid, John knew that he presented an impressive sight. The genitals of male alphas, even unaroused, were larger than most beta penises when erect. And his was apparently the first one the omega had seen up close.

Her whisper of "That's never going to fit" acted as a boost to John's ego, and he crawled across the bed to Cilia with a self-assured grin on his face.

"Don't worry, I'll go slow and be very careful," he promised.

He leaned over the omega, who presented a picture of innocence with her large eyes and rosy cheeks as she lay on top of the lacy white coverlet in her nightdress of the same colour. Something about the realisation that he would be the first man to penetrate her, who would take that innocence from her and plant his seed within her, awakened a primitive, primal instinct in John and initiated an urgent throbbing in his loins. Even though Cilia was bonded to another alpha and not technically a virgin – such an antiquated view being disingenuous in any case – John still found the notion highly arousing. He was pleased to see his cock begin to harden.

Even if he couldn't have his own omega, at least he would send this one into raptures.

With an unpleasant feeling forming in his stomach, John tried to ignore any thoughts of Sherlock as he carefully reached inside Cilia's open neckline to cradle her breast. It fit perfectly in the curve of his palm, and was wonderfully soft and warm. He kept stroking her stiff nipple as if in passing, while he slipped his other hand underneath her nightdress and lifted it up. Bit by bit, he unveiled her slender calves, then her knees and finally her thighs. John admired her flawless, bronzed skin and listened in awe as Cilia gasped for air when he tip-toed his fingers up her thighs.

John nuzzled Cilia's neck, breathing her in, as she turned her head to the side and closed her eyes. He strengthened his grip on her breast, clasping one nipple between his thumb and index finger and gently plucking it. He tenderly nibbled and licked his way down her neck to her cleavage until he reached her breasts, and sucked her other nipple in between his teeth. Cilia whimpered softly.

When he tried to part her thighs with his hand, he realised that the omega had planted her feet on the mattress and was squeezing her legs together hard. It was only then that he registered that the sounds Cilia was making didn't stem from arousal. John looked up in surprise and caught sight of a single tear running down her cheek before soaking into the sheet.

John immediately took his hands off her and scrabbled away.

"Cilia, what's wrong? Is everything okay? Have I hurt you?" he asked with concern.

The omega shook her head emphatically, squeezing her eyes shut even harder and swallowing a sob.

"It's not your fault, John. But I can't... not without Bill."

"Let's stop this then," John offered, moving to get up off the bed. The minimal arousal that had built up as a result of the one-sided stimulation disappeared on the spot, and his erection deflated.

"No, wait." Cilia grabbed John's arm with surprising strength and ran her hand up it. "Please, go and get her. I'm certain I'll be more at ease if Bill's with me."

John scratched the back of his head uncertainly. "I don't know if that's such a good idea. I mean, she's your alpha and she won't like to watch when I... touch you..."

Cilia propped herself up on her left elbow, continuing to caress John's arm with her other hand.

"Please, John. Bring Bill here to me, and let's try it that way."

John nodded reluctantly and got up. He scooped his dressing gown up from the floor and pulled on one sleeve as he opened the door to go look for Bill. He didn't need to go far: the alpha was crouched against the wall just opposite, gnawing anxiously on a hangnail. She looked up at John in surprise when he stepped into the hallway, quickly rising to her feet and taking a step toward him.

"Are... are you done already?"

John shook his head and gave Bill a lopsided grin. "No, just the opposite, we haven't even really got started."

"Oh?!"

"Cilia doesn't want to continue without you. I don't know if that's such a good idea though. We're friends, and... I'm fairly fond of my balls..."

He hoped his joke would break some of the tension in the air, while still conveying the seriousness behind it. John had no interest in getting into a fight with Bill over Cilia, should their natural instincts take over as soon as she saw her omega together with a potential rival.

Bill gave the idea serious consideration. John could virtually see the wheels turning in her head. Finally, she took a deep breath, only to let it out again loudly. Then she gave him an encouraging nod.

"Let's try. If either of us starts feeling aggressive, or like things are getting out of hand, we'll stop the whole thing immediately. Agreed?"

The small glimmer of hope he'd had that they might put an end to this insane idea disappeared in a puff of smoke. Resigned to his fate, he followed Bill back into the guest room with a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach.

Cilia was sitting on the bed again, her hands folded in her lap and her toes digging into the fluffy throw rug on the floor. She jumped up when the two alphas entered the room, and flung herself at Bill. She enfolded herself in Bill's arms and buried her nose in the crook of Bill's neck.

"I'm sorry," she mumbled, her voice muffled. "But I can't do it without you."

Bill tenderly stroked her omega's back, murmuring soothing words that John couldn't hear. He felt like a third wheel anyway, despite the fact that he'd been explicitly invited. He let his eyes wander around the room, over the floor and along the ceiling, anywhere but at the couple in front of him. He fumbled awkwardly with the belt of his dressing gown and was just about to say he was leaving when Cilia peeled herself away from Bill and held one hand out to him.

"Come here, John. Let's try it again." She gave him a shy smile. "And thank you for understanding."

John allowed himself to be led back to the bed, where Bill had already settled in. She was leaning back against the headboard with her knees bent and her legs apart – luckily, still fully clothed – and watching John and Cilia expectantly. The omega slid up between Bill's legs, cozying up to Bill's chest with her back. She leaned her head back against Bill's shoulder and gave John an encouraging nod.

John sighed and took off the dressing gown again before kneeling on the bed. This wasn't the first time that another alpha had seen him naked; after all, privacy and individual showers were virtually unheard of in Afghanistan. But it was different in an intimate situation like this, and he felt ill at ease. Fortunately, Bill was a female alpha so there wasn't any comparing of cocks, at least. On the other hand, he wouldn't even be in this unpleasant situation if Bill were able to inseminate Cilia herself.

He inhaled Cilia's calming scent, scooted closer to the couple, and gave them a querying look.

"How should we do this?"

Bill chuckled softly and dropped a kiss onto Cilia's temple as she let her hands wander over the omega's body. She massaged her shoulders and neck and rubbed her arms. Finally, she slipped her right hand inside the open neck of Cilia's nightdress and started massaging her breasts.

"I don't need to explain to 'Three Continents Watson' how to seduce a lady, do I?"

John stared intently at Bill's teasing fingers; the strange sensation in his stomach got stronger. He shook his head as if to dislodge an unpleasant image and wrapped his fingers around Cilia's bent knee.

"No, of course not. I'll just... yeah..."

He broke off when Cilia moaned softly and sought out Bill's lips. John watched the passionate kiss between the two women with growing interest as he took the opportunity to push Cilia's nightdress up. This time the omega didn't protest when John moved her legs apart and laid her bare. He swallowed hard when he saw that she was clean-shaven.

Hoping for a confirmation via eye contact, John glanced up, but the couple was still kissing, oblivious to anything else around them, their tongues wrapped around each other. Bill had pulled down the top of Cilia's clothing so that her breasts were exposed. Her hands were kneading the soft mounds, playing with the rosy buds. Cilia moaned again.

Now that Bill was there to offer her the security she needed, the omega was like a different person. John decided to continue from the point at which he'd been rejected before, and ran his fingers up Cilia's thighs, first on the outside, then the inside. He was fascinated by the way gooseflesh spread across the surface of her body. He noticed her flat stomach twitch underneath the silken material when his fingers finally neared her vulva. When no protest was forthcoming, he stroked upward along the smooth slit, carefully spread her labia, and exposed her clitoris. He gently brushed the bud with his thumb, stroking downward towards her opening. The scent of rock candy seemed to intensify.

Despite Cilia's sighs and the efforts of the two alphas, John was surprised to discover that where he expected to find moisture, the omega was completely dry. He ducked his head, ignoring the growing sense of nausea, and was about to dip his tongue inside when he felt a blow on the back of his head.

"What do you think you're doing, Watson?" Bill growled.

John lifted his eyes and glared at Bill, who returned the look with equal vitriol. "What do you _think_ I'm doing? She's dry as the Afghan desert. It's not going to work like this."

"Shit," the other alpha hissed and shook her head insistently. "Not like that. Let me do it."

John was still holding Cilia open with one hand, and watched now in fascination as Bill stuck her fingers into her own mouth to wet them, then began stimulating her omega with practised motions. She rubbed circles over her clit with her first two fingers, continuing to play with Cilia's breasts with the other hand. It was a highly erotic sight, and reminded John of a wild night when two female beta soldiers had accompanied him to his quarters, and a similar scene had gone down. There was a reason for his nickname, after all.

But this situation was completely different. For one thing, he had no idea when he might overstep one of Bill's limits. For that reason, he proceeded with caution as he started to touch those intimate parts of Cilia which Bill couldn't reach from her angle. He gently stroked her outer, then inner folds, wandering downward where he was pleased to find traces of moisture now.

"All right?" he checked in, not sure who he was directing the question at.

"Hmhm," Bill confirmed when Cilia let out a soft gasp.

John slowly slipped one finger inside. First just the tip, then up to the first knuckle. She was wet further in, and wonderfully warm and tight. He pushed in deeper, soon adding a second finger to the first, plunging them slowly but persistently in and out as Cilia writhed breathlessly under the attentions of their four hands.

Bill indicated to John with a nod that he should get ready. He withdrew his fingers and wrapped one hand around his shaft instead. To his surprise, despite their erotic foreplay, he was at most half hard. He hurriedly began to stroke his cock, pushing the foreskin up over the head as it plumped and spreading some of Cilia's moisture around it.

John watched as the omega caught her alpha's lips and moaned louder when Bill masturbated her harder.

"That's it, baby. You're almost there..." Bill growled.

"I... I don't know... _hngnn_... Bill... He's so big... I don't know how I'm... ah..."

The roiling burning in John's stomach had become almost impossible to ignore by now. Did he have food poisoning? Was that the reason he couldn't get properly hard? He was only half paying attention to the couple at this point, otherwise he might have noticed Cilia freezing up again. But Bill kept kissing her and increased the speed of her circular caresses between Cilia's legs.

The omega let out a loud gasp and seemed to be approaching her climax when Bill took her fingers away, interrupting her ministrations, and instead grabbed the backs of Cilia's knees with both hands. She lifted her legs and splayed them further, holding them in place with an adamantine grip to prevent Cilia from twisting away.

"Now, John. She's about to come, put it in!"

To an outside observer, they must have presented an extremely arousing tableau: the dominant alpha holding her partner's slender legs in a firm grip, a powerful male kneeling between them, about to plunge his alpha cock into the omega. Extremely arousing. Or threatening.

When John inched closer and probed her wet sheath with the head of his semi-erect prick, the omega whimpered softly and turned her head to one side, hiding it in the crook of Bill's neck.

But John didn't register any of that. For just as his cock came into contact with the omega, the burning in his chest became unbearable. It felt like his intestines were being ripped out, accompanied by a combination of anger, despair, panic, and grief. He also smelled wildflower honey, summer rain, and nightshade. Sherlock.

_"Sherlock!"_

"Thank God!" Cilia sobbed, slammed her legs together, and pulled her nightdress down.

As if struck by lightning, John retreated to the foot of the bed and began to cough and retch. He rolled onto his side and held his quivering stomach – hoping he wouldn't actually throw up. Or worse – have a heart attack, because it felt like red-hot spears were piercing his chest.

*

A short while later, the three sat in front of the fire blazing in the parlour hearth and discussed what had happened over tea and the rest of the Christmas biscuits. Even if John might have preferred something a bit stronger than the lavender infusion Cilia had brewed, he refrained on account of his rebellious stomach.

In hindsight, it turned out that Cilia had never been one hundred percent behind the notion of a 'live-action' donor. Of course she did want a baby, but more than that, she didn't want to lose Bill. She'd been more afraid of that than ever in the wake of the ugly incident in the Afghan bordello, and as a consequence had given in to repeated pressure from Bill.

For her part, Bill had been driven by other concerns. She knew that Cilia wanted children, and she in turn wanted to fulfil that wish, to give Cilia something to keep her occupied while Bill was stationed overseas. She had accepted Cilia's initial rejection of artificial insemination, and never pursued it further. Even though Cilia insisted now that her 'no' had never been set in stone; she'd merely wanted to rekindle a discussion about adoption. Bill hadn't quite understood that, and thus the idea of a donor had been born. A textbook example of miscommunication, which fortunately had been resolved just in the nick of time.

Nevertheless, Bill now sat on the sofa looking like a wet poodle, mechanically massaging Cilia's feet in her lap and apologising to everyone over and over.

John sat silently in the leather-upholstered wing chair, staring into the fireplace. Now and again, he would take a sip of his horrid tea, which at least soothed the burning in his gut. However, it did nothing for the restlessness and guilty conscience which plagued him.

"Stop it already," he growled eventually when Bill asked for forgiveness for the umpteenth time. "If anyone needs to apologise, it's me. I might have raped Cilia if not for – "

He broke off when Bill scrunched up her nose and sniffed loudly, rubbing her eyes.

"Nonsense, John!" Cilia rushed to assure him. "I never explicitly said no, and you always checked back to make sure it was all right. I know Bill's told me the two of you are both wary of falling victim to your biological urges after what happened in that horrendous red-light district. But it's not the same at all. It's true I didn't want all that. But I didn't make it clear enough. I'm the most at fault here. I'm just glad your omega intervened in time..."

John pulled his eyes away from the dancing flames and looked at Cilia, aghast.

"What are you talking about?"

"You know, your omega." Cilia smiled. "He didn't want it to happen either."

"What's she talking about?" John now asked Bill, obviously confused.

She shrugged in bewilderment.

"Your soul bond!" Cilia's smile grew wider, although the tilt of her head and other body language signalled a lack of comprehension on her part.

"Never heard of it."

"Come on, you must have. Everyone was always talking about it at school."

"That's all a load of rubbish, darling," Bill admonished her. "It's not a real thing. At most, it's romantic twaddle from those bodice rippers you've always got your nose buried in."

Cilia folded her arms, pouting, and tried to pull her feet out of Bill's grip. Bill held on stubbornly and tickled her soles in retaliation.

"It is not. It may be rare, but it does happen. My grandmother had a connection like that with her alpha, and she used to tell me about it all the time. It's quite wonderful, and very special."

"Cilia, please," Bill laughed. "How would John have formed a soul bond? His omega won't even let him get anywhere near him!"

"Hey!"

"Yeah, hey! Don't be so insensitive." Cilia poked Bill in the stomach playfully with her toes. "Just because John's bond may be somewhat unconventional, or our souls aren't linked in the same way, doesn't mean there's no such thing. It's rare, and doesn't make a relationship like ours any less good. But for those few whose souls are linked together... _oh..._" She made a wistful sound and turned to John. "Believe me, your omega intervened to stop you from doing something stupid. The pair of you are something quite extraordinary."

John shook his head and leaned on the sturdy arms of the chair to push himself to his feet.

"I'm going for a walk. Soul bond, what a load of hogwash..."

** _Present day_ **

John grumbled as he closed his office door behind himself and dropped down onto his chair. In the midst of that morning's chaos, he'd completely forgot that the staff assistants were having an IT training workshop that morning, and he actually would have the day off. At least work prevented him from wandering aimlessly through London like he used to. Plus he could use his computer and look up flats for let.

A knock sounded on his door in the early afternoon, and Sarah Sawyer stuck her head in.

"I thought I heard someone in here. What are you doing?"

John shrugged and pointed at the pile of papers beside him. "I thought I'd use the day off to work through some of this. I also wanted to do some research online. I hope that's okay?"

"Of course it's okay," his boss said. "What are you looking for, if I may ask?"

John squeezed his hand into a fist underneath the desk. He wanted to be alone and had absolutely no interest in airing his dirty laundry in front of Sarah. But the woman was always so level-headed, like a calm port out of the storm. Additionally, she'd offered John a job on the spot when he'd dropped in to leave his CV with the clinic. She was an easy-going boss, and certainly wasn't about to pass judgment on him if he told her about his failure as an alpha. And so he gave her a tiny peek into his domestic situation, explaining that he was looking for his own flat.

"Oh John, that's really a shame. I'm so sorry. Can I help with anything?"

"Well, you don't happen to have an affordable flat lying around somewhere, do you?" he asked with a crooked grin.

Sarah bit her lower lip as she gave it some thought, until a smile stole across her face.

"I can't help with the flat, but I can offer you my couch for a couple of nights. It's nothing fancy, but you can open it up, and... well, it would take the pressure off while you look around."

"You're not serious?" John said, rising from his chair. He walked around the desk and stood in front of Sarah.

"Sure!" she said cheerfully, then let out a squeak when John impulsively pecked her on the cheek.

"You're a star. Thank you!"

*

John set out for Sarah's place with her that evening, extremely grateful for her generous offer. They stopped off to buy some groceries, and afterwards Sarah insisted on cooking something for him. It turned out that she was not only an excellent doctor, but a talented cook as well.

They ate dinner together, then watched a documentary on BBC and had an animated discussion over it. Afterwards, Sarah helped John to set up the sofa bed, and they said good-night. It was pleasant to spend time with her, and it all felt very natural.

They spent the next three days in a similar manner, which John was grateful for as it distracted him from thinking about Sherlock. Not only that – it showed him how easy living together could be if both people treated each other with respect, didn't overstep boundaries, and neither one was a full-blown drama queen.

He didn't want to admit, over breakfast eggs, sharing the morning paper, and a sunny smile directed his way, that he hadn't been able to fall asleep because it felt as if a lead weight were pressing down on his chest; that he'd tossed and turned because he was pining for Sherlock so hard that he couldn't breathe. Nor that he struggled against the temptation every day to ring Sherlock up or at least check with Mrs Hudson on how he was doing.

On the evening of the fourth day, John decided to invite Sarah out for dinner to thank her for her hospitality. He took her to a sushi restaurant that she'd picked out, even if tiny pieces of fish weren't exactly his thing. Sarah steered the conversation to Sherlock for the first time over white wine and dessert.

"I just can't understand why he's so adamant about rejecting your relationship..." she mused as she licked the green tea ice cream off her spoon with relish. "I mean, it's in his nature to subordinate himself to an alpha."

"Yeah, well it's his nature itself that he doesn't accept. He doesn't want to be an omega, and he'll do anything to lead as independent a life as he can. He doesn't want to let anyone dominate him, least of all in a conventional alpha-omega relationship. We signed a contract. It was never anything more than that. The fact that external circumstances... my injury … brought us together again..." John shrugged. "I understand why he's unhappy about it."

Sarah made a thoughtful sound and scraped the rest of the ice cream out of her bowl, even as John regretted going into so much detail. It wasn't his place to tell a stranger about Sherlock's difficulties with accepting life as an omega. Plus, he didn't want to talk about his bond with any third parties. He didn't want to talk about it with anyone full stop. Except maybe with the one person who wasn't so talkative himself.

"I don't know..." she began, and John's hope faded that Sarah would drop the topic. "I've always thought a bond like that would be terribly romantic. Your one true life partner, your perfect counterpart. Yin and yang."

"I can't speak for the romance part," John quipped. He signalled to a passing server to prepare their bill.

"When I was little, I always used to imagine what it would be like to be an omega."

"You did?" John rolled his eyes to himself. Sarah seemed dead set on pursuing this topic today. "But you do realise you'd never have been able to become a doctor, right? Nor own a flat or head up a clinic. You would have been barred from all that. You would have led a modest life in an alpha's shadow, and wouldn't have enjoyed any of the independence you have as a beta."

"Hm..." Sarah said and smirked. "Maybe daydreams are more romantic than reality. But at least the sex is supposed to be heavenly, right?"

She gave John a suggestive look, to which he responded by raising his eyebrows in surprise.

"Erm... yeah.... Are you finished? Shall we go?"

He tossed a couple of banknotes onto the table and got up.

*

Later that night, John was sitting on the couch, waiting for Sarah to finish her shower so he could use the bathroom. He absently flipped his phone over and over in his hand, pondering whether to ring Sherlock or not. Just to see how he was doing and ask if he was any happier now without John.

He didn't want to make any accusations; he just wanted to know if the physical separation was helping the omega, or whether he also felt the same wistful yearning from time to time. Whether he was familiar with a feeling like holding your breath underwater for too long. And then your lungs started to burn because they were screaming for oxygen and there was a roaring sound in your ears. And little black spots appeared in your field of vision, dancing up and down. Sometimes the spots were rainbow-coloured, depending on whether you were in the tub or somewhere outdoors where the sun was being refracted by the surface of the water.

John wanted to know all of that and much more besides. And yet he didn't call Sherlock. He was too afraid of the answer. Plus, he couldn't stop thinking about Sherlock's comment that he'd had a _front-row seat_ every time John had had sex with other people.

A voice from the past flashed into his mind, accompanied by the scent of daisies and rock candy.

_Soul bond..._

Poppycock!

And yet... hadn't he felt that link himself from time to time? Especially that one night. That one inexplicable, terrible moment which he counted amongst the most horrendous in his life... when Sherlock...

John shook his head uncomfortably when the memory conjured up images and emotions he'd gone to such lengths to bury. Buried but not forgotten...

The sound of someone gently clearing their throat jarred John out of his reflections. Sarah was leaning in the doorway, wearing a short silk kimono and watching John with a half-smile on her face.

"Bathroom's free..."

"Great. I'll just... go on then..." John set his phone down on the coffee table and was about to stand up when Sarah stepped into the room, swinging her hips seductively. He let himself plop back down onto the couch as Sarah continued speaking.

"I'm sorry to see you like this, John. He doesn't know what he's missing out on."

"I guess not." John laughed, uncertain what was going on.

"You're funny, clever, and self-sacrificing. And you're_quite_ easy on the eyes..."

"Erm... thanks..." John rubbed his palms along the sides of his thighs self-consciously.

"… a consummate alpha by any definition."

She glanced pointedly between his legs and reached for the belt of her kimono to loosen it. "You know..." The silky material gaped open, revealing her nude figure. "You don't have to sleep on the couch if you don't want to..."

"Oh..."

Sarah closed the short distance between them, pushed him down onto the cushions by his shoulders, and scrambled onto his lap without further invitation. She gazed deep into his eyes and took his hands, guiding one to her backside and the other to her chest.

"A man like you, an alpha like you, deserves a partner who appreciates him," she whispered against his lips and lowered her mouth onto his.

John was taken by surprise, but instinctively returned the kiss, firming up his grip on her arse and breast to pull her closer. He felt her nipple harden underneath his palm, as she let out a barely audible sigh. Sarah pressed her naked crotch onto the rough denim material covering his groin, and rubbed against him.

"Oh, John..." she gasped blissfully. She deepened the kiss, nipping at John's bottom lip before plunging her tongue into his mouth and swiping it across his.

John tasted the mint of her toothpaste and the sharp tang of her mouthwash. Nothing else. Just stale emptiness.

_Wrong, no, stop!_

Wildflower honey, summer rain, and moonlight elbowed into the forefront of his mind, causing him to break off the kiss.

_I had a front-row seat every time: I felt what it was like for you..._

"Sarah, stop it, please!" John removed his hands from Sarah's bare body and put them on her shoulders instead to push her away. "I can't."

"What? Why not?"

The beta blinked at John in confusion and wrapped the loose ends of her kimono around her body to cover herself.

"I'm not a free man, Sarah. I can't... I _won't_ cheat on my omega."

"Oh, God. I'm so – I shouldn't have – This is so embarrassing..." Sarah stammered, sliding off John's lap.

They both got up from the couch; Sarah with her eyes lowered and the silken cloth twisted around her body, John on unsteady legs, uncertain how to act.

"I think I'd best be going."

He reached down for his duffle bag, tossed in the few items of his which lay around, and finally went back to Sarah, who was now sitting on the couch. He crouched down in front of her and clasped her hands, which were folded in her lap.

"I'm sorry. It's not you; you're a wonderful person, and I'm sure I could have been very happy with you. But it just wouldn't be right."

Sarah extricated one hand from his grip, laid it against John's cheek, and gave him a sad look. "I hope he'll realise what he has in you one day."

John made an unintelligible sound and squeezed her hand. "I wouldn't bet on it. Everything square with us?"

Sara nodded, leaned forward, and brushed a feather-light kiss on his lips. "I still wish it for you. You deserve to be happy."

*

On the pavement in front of Sarah's flat, John looked around for a moment, disorientated and trying to put some order to the chaos in his brain. In the end, one thought stood out above everything else:

_I had a front-row seat every time: I felt what it was like for you..._

He reached for his phone as if on autopilot and pressed the button for Sherlock's contact. It was answered on the third ring.

"What do you want, John?"

"Is it true, Sherlock?"

"Is what true?"

"That you felt it every time I was together with someone else? Whenever I had sex?"

Sherlock was so quiet for the space of several heartbeats that John started to think he'd simply hung up. He pressed the phone to his ear until he heard a soft "Yes."

"This time as well?"

The voice on the other end of the line laughed – it could have been either amused or stunned.

"Yes, this time too. What do you want, John? Absolution? Go! Go to your beta and have your fun. It doesn't concern me. I simply want you to leave me in peace."

"Wait!" John cried, aware that Sherlock was about to end the call.

"What else is there? You've courted this beta long enough. With that awful cologne and new haircut. Now you've got what you wanted. Am I supposed to congratulate you on top of everything else? Well, congratulations, John. There! Satisfied now?"

"Good grief, you bloody mule! Can't you listen to me for a change? I don't want anything from her, and I walked out. I just wanted you to know that."

Sherlock fell silent again, before inhaling sharply. "I don't care. You can do whatever you want."

John shook his head resignedly. Was it really possible that the omega was so unaffected?

"Is that all?" Sherlock prodded.

"Yeah... I... I just want to know how you're doing?"

John heard an irritated sigh, followed by a click as the omega ended the call.

John rubbed his eyes wearily. But before he could put his phone back inside his jacket, the tone sounded which signalled an incoming text.

John unlocked the screen and tapped on the appropriate icon.

_Miserable. SH_

_Me too..._

_Good. SH_

The reply brought a small smile to John's face.

_On my way home._

_Good. SH_

+++

tbc


	14. Chapter 14

** _Present day_ **

Sherlock leapt to his feet when he heard the key in the front door. A warm shiver ran down his spine, something fluttered in his stomach, and his pulse rate increased. He listened intently to the slow footsteps ascending the stairs and stared at the door as it opened. Then, as if jarred out of a trance, he whirled around to face the window, tightened his dressing gown around his body, quickly knotted the sash, and brushed his unruly curls off his forehead.

Two heartbeats later, John's scent floated over to him, and the tingling in his body became more intense, almost manifesting as a visible quiver. Sherlock tried breathing through his mouth, but it didn't help. All of his senses were attuned to the alpha who had just entered the room, insistently demanding that he throw himself at him.

His arms folded across his chest, Sherlock glanced back over his shoulder and turned slowly around. John didn't look any different than he had a few days ago. He simply looked tired, a little pinched around the edges, and poorly shaven, but also... happy. A faint, barely perceptible smile twitched at the corners of his mouth when their eyes met.

"John," Sherlock said in welcome, barely able to think of any other words.

"Sherlock," John returned, letting his duffle bag drop to the floor before closing the door to the flat behind himself. He nervously rubbed his fingers across his left palm. Not quite the half angry, half annoyed fist flex that was so typical for him, but still an unmistakeable expression of his inner unrest. Was he still angry? Or maybe even relieved?

Sherlock instinctively pressed the tip of his tongue against the roof of his mouth and inhaled the air around him. Sunshine, water, wood, and moss – they were all there. Close enough to touch. He felt a keening sound begin to vibrate in his larynx, but quickly cleared his throat to overpower it. There were no words to express how much he wanted to take those few short steps to his alpha and bury his nose in the crook of John's neck.

_I've missed y –_

"Good... It's good to see you," John said after a time, during which they did nothing but stare at each other.

Sherlock nodded once, still busy putting his thoughts in order and processing John's scent. He was about to open his mouth to respond when he noticed something mixed in with that wonderful olfactory composition which didn't belong. His eyes were automatically drawn to John's crotch, as if he could eliminate the source with the power of his vision alone. He frowned darkly when he realised what the smell was.

_...every time I was together with someone else? Whenever I had sex? This time as well?_

"Take off your clothes!" Sherlock growled with a combination of indignation and lust. One part of him wanted to tear John's clothes off his body himself and rub up against him until there was no trace of the beta left. Another part was outraged that John had dared to show up here in such a state.

Nonplussed, John widened his eyes but promptly took his jacket off. "All... all right?" His confusion was unmistakable, but he complied and started unbuttoning his shirt.

It would be unthinkable for Sherlock to throw himself at John just now – or at any other time, for that matter. Never again, and not just because his body wanted him to. Jealousy and territorial behaviour were two things that Sherlock didn't appreciate in others, and he wasn't about to make an exception for himself. And so before John got the wrong idea entirely regarding his intentions, Sherlock turned on his heel and went into the kitchen – although not without directing a few choice words at the alpha as he passed.

"You stink of that beta. It's revolting!"

John paused what he was doing and looked in Sherlock's direction. "Er... yeah..." he said slowly, as if he were only now realising what was going on. He sheepishly scratched behind his left ear. "I'll go have a shower."

"Hm," Sherlock grunted his acknowledgement as he filled the kettle – just to keep busy until John had disappeared into the bathroom. As soon as the door closed, Sherlock set the kettle back on the heating element and hurried over to the duffle bag. He opened it and dug out two or three articles of clothing at random, which he held up to his face. He slung the t-shirt that smelled most of John over his shoulder, then stuffed the rest back inside and pulled the drawstring closed again.

He went into his own room and shoved the t-shirt underneath his bedspread before returning to the kitchen to turn on the kettle and make the tea.

After John had finished his shower and brought his bag up to his room, the two men sat together in the living room – John in his armchair and Sherlock on the couch. They drank their tea, which neither one mentioned Sherlock having prepared for the both of them. Nor did they comment on the lateness of the hour, or the fact that John would have to go to work the next day. And finally, there was no discussion of their separation over the past few days.

Sherlock wasn't about to admit that he'd missed John so much he'd almost resorted to going out and getting more of the drug which had, for many years, prevented him from falling into a deep depression. But in order to get his hands on any Seven, he would have had to leave the flat – which he still hadn't managed to do. Nothing had been able to distract Sherlock from the emotions which gnawed at him, not even the files from Scotland Yard or the occasional texts from DI Lestrade.

It was enough to drive him mad, yet even though nothing had changed about his original dilemma, Sherlock was relieved that John had returned.

"Aren't you tired?" John asked at some point after 1:00 a.m.

Sherlock shook his head. "No, not especially," he lied, so that he could have John's company for a little while longer. But John apparently didn't take the hint, because he slapped his hands down on his thighs and heaved a sigh as he stood.

"Well, I have to work tomorrow, so I should get at least a couple hours of shut-eye."

"Good night," Sherlock said – for what might have been the first time since John had lived on Baker Street – and purposely avoided eye contact with the alpha as he continued to hover.

"Good night, Sherlock. Don't forget to get some sleep too, yeah?"

"Dull..." Sherlock muttered. "I'll have another tea, then turn in," he added as a conciliatory gesture.

"Okay, good.

Sherlock looked up, as John still wasn't making any move to leave the room. Their gazes met halfway and stuck fast like thick honey. Sherlock's stomach flipped and his heart skipped a beat. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but he had no idea how to express what he was feeling, nor even if he should say anything at all. He looked back down at his empty teacup and remembered what he'd just said a few seconds ago.

Decision made, he got to his feet and walked past John into the kitchen to put more water on to boil.

That was enough to set John in motion as well. He went out the living room door and closed it quietly behind himself before climbing the stairs to the second floor.

Sherlock didn't make tea though; instead, he prepared a hot-water bottle, which he then brought to bed with him. The t-shirt he'd filched out of John's duffle earlier got pulled over his pillow like a casing, before he snuggled up with both items and sighed happily. Maybe he really should have tried this earlier...

Sherlock awoke in the middle of the night. He reached for his phone and blinked against the bright light coming from the screen. It was only 3:15. Annoyed, he let his head flump back onto the John-scented pillow and tried to figure out what had woken him up. When he heard a soft, rhythmic creaking coming from the room above his, he bolted upright and stared at the dark ceiling.

_Could it be ...?_

It wouldn't be the first time that Sherlock had knowledge of John rubbing one out, and yet this time it was somehow... different. Not least because Sherlock was acutely aware of his own blood rushing to his pelvis, causing an auspicious tightening throughout the area. He was probably imagining it; after all, John had gone to bed hours ago in order to be ready for work in the morning.

Without having consciously decided on a course of action, Sherlock flung the bedspread aside and got out of bed. He snuck out of his room and up the stairs on tiptoes, making his way by the faint bit of light filtering in through the window and taking care not to put any weight on those steps which squeaked. Halfway up to the second floor, he paused with one hand on the railing, his ears perked and his nose honed in on the door lying before him in the dark.

When he listened very hard, he could hear not only the creaking of the springs in John's mattress, but also his staccato breaths. Maybe he was having a nightmare, the logical part of Sherlock's brain argued; but the scent which grew more potent with every step painted an unmistakable picture. Red-hot arousal, lust, and untameable desire crept over the floorboards, through the crack under the door, and wafted out to Sherlock.

Sherlock swallowed hard and tried not to get distracted by the answering twinge in his crotch. He felt all too clearly as his own cock stiffened and pre-ejaculate fluid leaked out the tip, where it promptly soaked into the material of his underpants. Sherlock passed his tongue nervously over his lips and wondered whether he could take another step closer to John's room without giving himself away.

What did John think about when he pleasured himself? Sherlock didn't want to imagine John thinking about that beta he'd almost had sex with earlier. Or recalling any of the numerous sexual escapades he'd had; Sherlock had never felt anything like that for another human being, other than John.

But maybe he was thinking about the heat he'd shared with Sherlock, or the last time, when Sherlock had virtually ravished –

Sherlock froze. He'd never gone into John's room while he was gone, and he was fairly certain that Mrs Hudson hadn't been up here either. That meant the bed must still smell like Sherlock. Like the disgusting omega he was, who amidst pangs of agony had thrown himself at John and all but forced him to have sex with him.

Sherlock retreated a step and leaned against the wall of the stairwell. He looked up toward the second floor with a mixture of shame and arousal, listening as John let out a muffled groan when he climaxed. It sounded suspiciously like Sherlock's name. Without wasting another moment worrying about the consequences, Sherlock thrust his right hand into his pyjamas, under his pants, grasped his erection, and inhaled with shock when an erotic tingling sensation zinged down his nerve pathways. He hadn't touched himself since that unfortunate night, and he was surprisingly sensitive.

Something in him was convinced that if he went up to John and demanded that he take care of him, John wouldn't turn him down. Maybe he'd draw Sherlock in close and take him in his mouth while his fingers rubbed Sherlock's hole and forged a way inside to his most intimate spot. Sherlock bit down hard on his lip and squeezed his eyes shut at the thought that John had done something very much like that downstairs after he'd chased Lestrade away, when he'd pushed Sherlock up against the wall and made sure that the other alpha hadn't laid a hand on him.

Sherlock struggled to suppress a helpless sob as he approached his climax. Images from his first heat flooded his mind, making him thrust into his own fist with lustful abandon. His breathing was shaky and the fear of being discovered drove him to rub his wet cockhead and sensitive frenulum even faster. He clenched his jaw until it hurt in order not to let any sounds escape his lips. When he finally came all over his hand and the inside of his pants, he collapsed against the wall, exhausted.

He wiped his face with one trembling, unsullied hand and listened intently for any sounds which might be coming from John's room. But there was only silence.

A short while later, Sherlock felt steady enough to make his way back downstairs without risking a fall. He washed his hands in the bathroom, put on a clean pair of underwear, and promptly dropped onto his bed. It didn't take long for him to drift back to sleep, curled securely around the 'John pillow'.

*

When Sherlock woke the next morning, he was sure that John must have already left for the clinic a while ago. He was therefore quite astonished to find him sitting in the kitchen.

The table was set and full of food. Along with coffee and tea, there was toast, croissants, jam and honey, along with cold cuts, bacon, beans, grilled tomatoes and fried eggs.

Still groggy, Sherlock mentally ticked off the contents of the refrigerator, eventually concluding that John must have gone to the market as there had hardly been anything in the previous night. Since Sherlock didn't make any move to sit down or ask any of the questions burning on the tip of his tongue, John took the lead.

"Good morning. There's plenty here, help yourself."

"You're here..."

"Yes, I took the day off seeing as I've barely had a wink of sleep for the past few days," John replied.

Sherlock plopped down onto a chair across from John and swallowed the saliva which was rapidly collecting in his mouth from the delicious aromas.

"What... is this?" Sherlock asked as he watched John pour tea into a second cup and slide it across the table to him.

John shrugged without looking directly at Sherlock. "Some people call it breakfast; others might say it's a peace offering," he said and took a sip of his coffee.

"Peace...?"

"Yeah, it's... a lot has happened recently, and... I think we deserve to come up for air for a bit."

"Hmmm..." Sherlock reached for a croissant and tore one of the two corners off, dunked it in the honey, and popped it into his mouth. The pastry was still warm and fell apart in his mouth into a wonderfully sweet, sticky mass.

They ate slowly, and in silence.

A peace offering. Could they have arrived at a detente already? They hadn't talked about anything that had happened 'recently.' Sherlock didn't like the formulation. After all, the last five years couldn't really be called 'recent.' And yes, he realised he was being unfair; John couldn't help the fact that Sherlock sensed him. John couldn't even help the fact that they'd bonded. At the same time, he continued to represent everything that was wrong with society. He was an alpha who enjoyed and took advantage of his role simply because it lay in his nature. Nothing was going to change about that.

"A cease-fire..." Sherlock murmured after swallowing a second piece of the croissant.

"Hm?"

"That's a better term for it. A cease-fire."

"O...kay?" John said sceptically. The tightness in his jaw indicated that he was grinding his teeth. Apparently Sherlock's correction wasn't the desired outcome of his little... apology – or whatever this breakfast was supposed to be.

"I just think we should... come to some sort of arrangement, considering – " John cut himself off and looked around the breakfast table as if he'd find the missing words there.

Sherlock looked up and tried to catch the alpha's eye. "What? Considering the fact that we can't find any better solution for our_problem_?" Sherlock asked cuttingly.

John put a piece of tomato into his mouth and chewed pensively before he spoke again. "I... Well, yesterday. What exactly did you... feel? And all the other times?" he asked, embarrassed.

Ah-ha, so the issue wasn't their living situation at all, or the next inevitable heat, but their strange connection. Sherlock leaned back in his chair as if to create a bit more distance between himself and John. What should he say? How could he explain that he'd only sensed bits and pieces of John's partners, that nearly all he'd felt was John's lust? The thought alone caused a flush of shame to rise to his cheeks.

"I don't… feel much from the betas," Sherlock said evasively.

"What does 'not much' mean?" John asked with evident curiosity.

Sherlock curled his hands into fists underneath the table in order to get a grip on the anger rising in him. "I feel you," he muttered, so low it was barely audible, and lowered his eyes.

"What?"

"I said I feel _you!_ You and your arousal, your pleasure, your bloody orgasms!" Sherlock snapped, staring straight at John despite the scarlet blush on his face. "I feel when you're attracted to someone, when you penetrate them, and how much you like it! And it makes me sick!"

Sherlock registered through his cloud of anger that all the colour had drained from John's face. But now that he'd got started, it was difficult to stop the words from flowing.

"I've had to put up with it for over five years, and it's killing me that I can't change it! You were supposed to be the solution to the problem, but instead everything's only become much, much worse!" Sherlock jumped up with so much momentum that his chair skidded backwards and banged into the refrigerator. "And I _know_ you can't help it, but I can't take it much longer!"

Suddenly drained, Sherlock leaned his fists on either side of his plate and let his head hang down between his shoulders. "I want it to stop. But I don't know how to make it stop..."

"Sherlock..." There was sympathy in John's voice, but also resignation; maybe a hint of anger too. Emotions that Sherlock didn't want to face. He shook his head, avoiding making eye contact with John again.

"No... No, forget it." He turned away like a whipped dog and shuffled back into his room. Breakfast was over.

*

Why? Why was it so hard simply to resign himself to his fate and accept that he was nothing more than a bog standard omega? Why did he need to be different, to think differently? Why didn't he have any desire to give himself up completely to the relationship, to become one with his alpha and start a family?

Why think for himself when someone else could do it for him? Why strive for self-fulfilment when he could give in to a togetherness that erased all the lines? To become a slave of his own instincts, of his biology?

Love? Love was an illusion. A euphemism for a biochemical process that took place without input from the individual and faded over time.

Why couldn't he simply rip these feelings out of his chest and dissect them until he'd discovered their source? Until he'd found an antidote?

All he wanted, in the end, was to finally be himself...

*

"Sherlock?"

"Hm..."

"I'm going to the shops, you coming?"

Sherlock rolled onto his other side and blinked up at the closed door.

"Shops?"

"Yeah, the fridge is empty and I still owe Mrs Hudson for yesterday's breakfast. It's warm out, the sun's shining... Come on, it won't take long." The volume tapered off for the last few words, as John moved away from the door, apparently putting on his shoes.

It was an invitation, but also a suggestion to set foot outside the flat again after all this time. With John. Sherlock tried to picture how it would go, but panic set in almost immediately. No, best not think about it first. Just do it.

Without giving his fear a chance to torpedo this surge of motivation, Sherlock sprang out of bed and flung open the door. "I'm coming too!" he cried and dashed to his wardrobe to take out a pair of trousers and a shirt. It didn't take long for him to get dressed and be ready for the outing.

John stood in the entryway of the house, looking up the stairs when Sherlock descended. A small smile danced on his lips, and he held an empty cloth bag in one hand.

Sherlock was relieved that John didn't say anything about his long stretch of living like a hermit, nor about their conversation from the day before. Instead, he held the door open and put one hand on the small of Sherlock's back to give him a gentle but firm nudge over the threshold.

Sherlock stepped onto the pavement and looked around. Nothing had changed. There were various people out in the streets, going about their business, shopping, or chatting with neighbours and other acquaintances. The usual traffic for that time of day was running more or less noisily over the asphalt, birds were singing, and the clatter of silverware rang out from Speedy's Cafe next door.

Sunshine landed on Sherlock's face. The aromas of sweet pastries, vehicle exhaust, and crowds of people washed over him. Alphas, betas, omegas. No one seemed to be clocking him as a potential victim. In fact, no one registered his presence with anything more than a curious look. No one except ... John, who stood beside him waiting patiently for Sherlock to finish processing this initial foray.

Sherlock swallowed once, then again, before straightening the collar of his coat and nodding, as if assuring himself that everything was in order.

"Ready?" John asked.

Sherlock looked down at him and nodded again.

"Let's go then."

They walked down Baker Street side by side, but rather than going to the nearby Sainsbury's or Tesco, John suggested a stroll to Regent's Park.

"It's just a little detour. I hope that's all right?"

"Of course," Sherlock said, keeping pace with the alpha.

"It's such a nice day, this weather should be enjoyed, don't you think?" John said. They'd skirted the shore of the Boating Lake for a short distance before stopping to look out across the water and watch the swans and geese floating on its surface.

"Yes, I agree," Sherlock replied, leaning his head back and closing his eyes to revel in the warm sunlight on his face.

"I found the book, by the way..." John said

Although he didn't specify his discovery any further, Sherlock immediately knew which book he meant. "Mrs Hudson brought it by."

"Thought so... She must be sick of hearing us arguing all the time."

Sherlock grunted his agreement. "It's utterly ridiculous. The book, I mean."

"Yeah, looks like it. But... who knows, there might be something useful in there."

Sherlock opened his eyes and blinked at John, nonplussed. "Useful? For what?"

John shrugged and gestured vaguely between himself and Sherlock.

"You want to try it." Not a question: a statement.

John turned his head to look at the lake again. "I don't know. Maybe. What would be so bad about that?"

_What would be so bad – ?_

"I'm not going to fall in love with you, John," Sherlock said and squared his shoulders.

"I know! That's not what I meant. You'd have to be pretty naïve to think a self-help book like that could help you fall in love. But..." John shrugged again. "It might help us understand each other better. It's fairly obvious things can't go on the way they are. Don't you agree?"

Sherlock didn't have an answer right away. But the more he thought about it, the more he believed John was right. Things couldn't continue like this.

"Perhaps..."

"Okay, good. One of the first exercises in the book is to apologise to your partner. And 'partner' here is used in a very general sense, not in terms of being lovers or anything," John assured him. "At any rate... erm... yeah. Sherlock, I'm sorry for all those things I ever said that were intended to hurt you. Like when I called you a tart. That... that was wrong, and I'm sorry. There, that's my apology."

It was obviously difficult for John to say those things. Sherlock wasn't completely certain they were sincerely meant, but he realised nothing about their situation was going to change if he distrusted John from the start. He nodded curtly to signal his acknowledgement.

"All right, fine. And I'm sorry for calling you a poor excuse for an alpha. I knew those words would hurt you, and that was the only reason I used them. I apologise."

They exchanged a quick look to check whether their respective apologies had been accepted, but neither dared to comment on the little smile on their counterpart's lips. It was a start, one small step towards more understanding for each other.

Nothing more than that.

*

The mood around the house improved markedly over the next few days. They still didn't say much to each other, and mainly went about their own separate pursuits, but that was better than constant rowing at any rate. Both men tolerated the other's presence, albeit without actively seeking it out.

Sherlock didn't mention the fact that the refrigerator was always well stocked, and that John frequently cooked enough for both of them. He would wait until John was finished and had cleared out before eating whatever had been prepared alone in the kitchen.

And John didn't mention the fact that Sherlock started to develop a habit of tidying up. He washed both of their dishes without being asked, cleared away all of the papers and books he usually needed to solve his cases, and took frequent trips outside the flat, either just for a stroll or to visit the lab at Bart's. The remnants of his pheromone blocker experiment vanished bit by bit, even if Sherlock hadn't stopped working on it by a long shot.

What Sherlock didn't tell John was that he'd ordered an absorbent mattress cover online, specially made for omegas. He felt an auspicious tingling in his loins more frequently these days, and noticed that his body temperature was undergoing heavy fluctuations. It got better when he lay down in bed and buried his nose in John's t-shirt, but the coveted scent had already faded noticeably and didn't have as much of an effect on him as at the beginning.

One thing was certain: his next heat wasn't far off – the signs were crystal clear – and Sherlock was going to have to prepare for the fact that John would be spending it with him again.

Astonishingly enough, the notion scared him much less than it had the last time.

** _Two years and ten months previously_ **

The feelings stemming from the new omega in John's life didn't surface a second time. Whatever had happened that night, Sherlock didn't sense her anymore. Maybe John had backed off the whole thing; or maybe he'd actually felt the psychic attack and found a way to block Sherlock – after all, Sherlock had managed it too with the help of the Seven drug.

Who could say with any certainty that there wasn't an equivalent for alphas?

The two months in Mycroft's custody had been pure torture for Sherlock. He hated having to be on his best behaviour in front of his brother, but he had no other choice if he wanted to return to his own flat after his house arrest was over.

He spent most of the time either in the house's private library or together with Anthea, who was making great strides in her efforts to learn Polish. An elderly Polish beta woman came by once a week to help her overcome grammatical hurdles and correct her pronunciation. Sherlock paid close attention to their conversations, and learned more about the language in this manner than he'd originally planned.

One afternoon, Anthea came up to Sherlock's room. She was cradling her huge belly with one hand, while in the other she held a bundle of letters. She sat down on the bed next to Sherlock and waited until he lowered the book about poisonous plants he was reading onto his chest and gave her a quizzical look. It annoyed Sherlock a little that Anthea acted so perfect, even when there were no alphas around, but she was clearly a lost cause anyway.

"What is it?"

"I thought you'd approach me yourself and ask, but I should have known better," she said and placed the letters on top of the open book. "I told you he was here a while back."

She was obviously speaking of John. Sherlock's stomach responded with a prompt squeeze, and a strange tingling sensation spread through his body. He looked down at the packet, which consisted of six open envelopes and was tied together with a violet ribbon. Anger and apprehension gathered in his gut. Had Anthea read the letters? Or maybe even Mycroft?

"He wanted your phone number. Why didn't you give it to him? It might be important for him to contact you as his omega," she advised.

Sherlock shrugged mulishly without looking at her. "Contact wasn't part of the agreement. We only bonded so that we could have our freedom. I didn't want to raise any false hopes in him."

"And what about you? Didn't you ever want to contact him? He's become part of you through the bite, and – " Anthea stopped speaking when Sherlock rolled away from her. The book fell shut when it landed on the bed. The letters slid off the edge and fell on the floor. She sighed out loud.

"I don't think he wanted to harass you. It looks more as if he had something important to tell you. And he wanted to know how you were doing. That's a nice thing – and more than other omegas ever get to hear from their alphas..."

Sherlock sat up and glared angrily at his brother's wife. "Don't project your problems onto me, Anthea! Why don't you confront your alpha and ask him why he's always hanging around that DI, hm? Why don't you ask him which rock he's been hiding under for your whole pregnancy, just so he won't have to face the reality of his hypocritical lifestyle?"

Anthea returned Sherlock's angry glare with a chill that Sherlock was familiar with from his brother. She'd taken on so many of his mannerisms, had virtually become a mirror image of him, yet still couldn't manage to hold his attention. Despite their bond and the young life growing inside her.

"You know, I was happy when Mycroft told me you would be living with us again for a while, because I was looking forward to finally having someone around who knows what it's like to be an omega. But you, Sherlock Holmes, you're a bitter, spiteful child who has no idea what real life is like! You spread your poison around because you can't see how good you have it. Not many omegas can say they made a good choice with their alpha, and you? You just got lucky! And you don't want to – or can't – see how lucky you are, because you're too arrogant and self-centred." Anthea leaned one hand on the bed, held her substantial abdomen with the other, and stood up.

"You think you're the only one who has feelings; the only one who has a right to have feelings. And yet we're all in the same boat. Your mother died because she couldn't endure the loss of her alpha, and I wish – I _wish_ – you could understand what it means to feel that much for someone. But you Holmeses, you're all the same. You simply don't understand what you do to the people around you!"

She left the room with slow, shuffling steps, not even bothering to close the door behind her.

Sherlock flung himself onto his back again, only to roll onto his side a short while later and peer over the edge of the bed at the floor where the letters lay. The ribbon had unwound from the force of the landing, and the top letter had slipped off the stack. Sherlock ran his fingers along the torn-open flap, around the sharp corner of the envelope, and finally tugged the letter over to him.

He flipped onto his stomach, resting on his elbows, and gingerly held the opening of the envelope up to his nose. It didn't smell of anything other than paper, ink, and the streets of London. It had been too long since it was in John's possession to bear even the slightest trace of him.

Sherlock took out the two sheets of paper which were inside and unfolded them. The letter was handwritten – which shouldn't surprise him, after all there was no reason to assume there were computers and printers readily available in an active warzone. It was the first time he'd seen John's handwriting – angular and a little careless, as was to be expected of a doctor. It wasn't uniform either: some letters were written in two or even three different ways, while others always looked the same. The letter contained several spelling mistakes which John had firmly crossed out and either written over or corrected alongside. All in all, a fairly ordinary letter.

The contents were surprisingly mundane. It was no love letter; there were no demands to get in touch with him, no crying for his runaway omega. It was very simply a rundown of what he did every day. A description of basic training, the never-ending exhaustion, the numerous tasks John had to do. Despite all that, the tone was cheerful, not plaintive, weary, or regretful. John was clearly enjoying himself, no matter how hard it was. He told about the other alphas and the handful of betas he occasionally came into contact with. There were no omegas, of course.

The letter ended by asking how Sherlock was doing, and expressing the fervent hope that he was now able to do everything he'd wished for so long.

Sherlock swallowed thickly. A lump had appeared in his throat which made it difficult to breathe. He slipped the pages back into the envelope and reached for the other letters to read them one after the other.

*

Three days later, Sherlock was rudely awakened in the middle of the night when a loud scream tore through the silence. Without taking time to think, he leapt to his feet and lurched out of the room, ran down the corridor, and burst into his brother's bedroom.

Anthea lay on the bed, holding her stomach. Her face was bathed in sweat and loose strands of hair clung to her forehead and cheek. Her panicked eyes latched onto Sherlock.

"Call Mycroft! The baby's coming!"

Another cry of pain jarred Sherlock out of his stasis, causing him to swear under his breath. Where the hell was his brother?

He went into the adjacent study, his legs like jelly, but Mycroft wasn't there either. He picked up the desk phone and pressed the quick-dial button with the number of Mycroft's mobile. The dial tone sounded, followed by ringing on the other end, but there was no answer even after he let it ring for quite a while. Sherlock cursed and slammed the receiver down before returning to the bedroom.

"Can't reach him... Should I call an ambulance?"

Anthea grimaced in pain and gritted her teeth. An inhuman sound forced its way out of her throat, her cheeks and forehead took on a feverish tone, beads of perspiration formed at her temples.

_Shit, shit, shit,_ Sherlock swore silently and ran back to the phone. He tried his brother's number once more, staring tensely at the old-fashioned device as if he could charm it into summoning Mycroft on the other end. After the third ring and another scream from the omega in the next room, he gave up and entered the emergency services number instead.

As soon as he'd explained the situation in a quavering voice and given the address, he went back to Anthea.

"The ambulance is on its way. What can I do?"

Anthea sobbed between breathy gasps and cries of pain, angrily smearing the tears running down her face. "Mycroft!" she whimpered over and over, while Sherlock cursed his brother for his insensitive, egotistical behaviour. He sat down next to Anthea on the bed, pushed her hair back off her face, and wiped away her tears with a tissue. At the same time, he tried to get his own panic under control and make some practical decisions.

What would Anthea need? Did she have something already packed for an upcoming hospital stay, or had she planned to have the baby here?_(God, hopefully not!)_ Were there any documents she needed to bring along? Sherlock had never been interested in such things, never thinking that he would ever be confronted with a situation like this.

After several minutes – which felt like hours to Sherlock – Anthea had calmed down a bit. The strongest contractions seemed to have ebbed. She rested her face against Sherlock's arm, clutched his worn-out t-shirt, and groaned loudly with every breath, the sound reminiscent of an injured animal.

"Do you have … a bag? With things? For the hospital, I mean?" Sherlock asked, kicking himself inwardly for his lack of eloquence.

"In the wardrobe," Anthea murmured without opening her eyes. "And I'll need to... put something on."

"Right..." Sherlock went over to the closet and took out the bag which Anthea must have packed some time earlier. He also picked out a cardigan for her to put on over her nightgown, and a warm dressing gown. He put a pair of warm socks and slippers on her feet and ran to the front door when the doorbell rang.

The two paramedics were betas, Sherlock was relieved to see. He led them up to the bedroom and watched fretfully as they helped Anthea to her feet and led her down the stairs. Sherlock carried her bag down and watched with mixed feelings as Anthea disappeared into the ambulance.

"Aren't you coming?" the driver asked Sherlock through the rolled-down window.

"Er..."

"You'd best put something on, it's not going to take much longer."

"O-okay!" Sherlock hurriedly threw his coat on over his t-shirt and pants and slipped his bare feet into his red trainers, not bothering to tie them. He climbed up onto the passenger seat beside the driver, gripping Anthea's bag on his lap.

*

He'd forgotten to bring his phone. And Anthea's labour had already been going on for three hours. Sherlock refused to go into the delivery room, preferring to sit in the waiting room in his state of half-dress, Anthea's bag between his feet and wringing his hands. There were only two other people there at such an ungodly hour: an alpha who was nervously pacing back and forth – probably a father-to-be – and a young beta who was disinterestedly leafing through yet another magazine and snapping their gum.

Sherlock was in desperate need of a coffee and a cigarette, but didn't dare leave Anthea's possessions alone with these strangers. He rubbed his burning eyes, trying in vain to stave off exhaustion. Even more than the coffee and cigarette, however, he wanted to get his hands on his brother. He was so unbelievably furious at Mycroft that he wasn't sure how he would react when he finally saw him. What hare-brained excuse would he come up with this time? What possible justification would he dish up when he found out that he'd missed the birth of his child?

Sherlock was just imagining how much he would enjoy wringing his brother's neck when a nurse came into the waiting room, making a beeline for him.

"Mr Holmes?"

"Yes?"

"Everything went well. Your sister-in-law is about to be brought up to her room, and then you can see her. You can wait in front of the delivery room," she said with a smile.

"Oh... all right, good." Sherlock blew out a relieved breath and stood up. He needed to wait several minutes outside the swinging door to the delivery room before Anthea was brought out on a stretcher. She looked terrible. Her face was covered in red fever blotches, her eyes were bloodshot and swollen, her otherwise so neatly coiffed hair was tangled and dishevelled. Sherlock was surprised to see that the baby wasn't with her.

Their eyes met for a fraction of a second, but Anthea barely seemed to register Sherlock's presence.

With a rising sense of disquiet, Sherlock followed the nurse as she manoeuvred the stretcher, holding open the door to the private room where Anthea was supposed to recover. He set the bag down next to the nightstand and watched as the nurse helped Anthea move from the stretcher to the bed. She then hung up an IV bag that Sherlock hadn't even noticed before. When she saw the look of concern on Sherlock's face, she explained that it was just a solution of iron and electrolytes. After she'd covered Anthea with a blanket, she wheeled the stretcher out of the room.

"Er... where... where's the baby?" Sherlock asked before she could disappear.

"Oh, don't worry, it will be here shortly. It's just being cleaned and dressed."

"Ah... of course..." Sherlock let the door fall shut and looked over at Anthea. She lay with her face toward the window, ignoring Sherlock completely. It was already getting light out, the last few stars fading into the blue background.

"How are you?" Sherlock asked hesitantly, but Anthea didn't stir. Unsure how he was supposed to act or what to do, Sherlock pulled up a chair and sat down next to the bed. "Maybe he's seen that we were trying to reach him by now... I don't have my phone with me, unfortunately. I'm sure he's tried to call."

Anthea very slowly turned her head toward Sherlock and regarded him from underneath her clumped-together eyelashes. "Don't be ridiculous, you know precisely where he is. We both do. We just don't say anything because we have a scrap of decency – unlike him."

"That... you can't know that..." Sherlock said, letting his head droop down and covering his face with one hand.

Yes, it could be that Mycroft had somehow convinced Lestrade that they belonged together. But did Lestrade even have tendencies in that direction? Was he really as stupid as Mycroft and had started an affair with a bonded alpha? After Lestrade himself had been betrayed by his own omega? It didn't make any sense for him to reproduce the same mistake, knowing full well what the consequences would be. And then as an alpha with another bloody alpha... that...

Lestrade was the next best thing to a friend that Sherlock had. It couldn't... it simply could not be that... He wasn't... like _that_!

It was all so confusing and _wrong_...

Sherlock startled when the door opened and another nurse wheeled in a bassinet padded with several soft cloths. A small bundle lay in the midst, its tiny red face peeking out with its eyes pinched shut. Miniature fingers peeped out of the rolled-up sleeves of a much too large onesie. The nurse pushed the bassinet over to the other side of the bed and carefully picked the baby up before settling it in Anthea's arms, smiling broadly.

Anthea took it, but the corners of her mouth remained downturned. She gazed down at her infant, but Sherlock couldn't make out any perceptible emotion on her face.

"I'll leave you alone for the time being. If you need anything, just push the call button."

"All right," Sherlock said on Anthea's behalf, without taking his eyes off the tiny creature. Children had never really interested him much, but knowing that this little person was part of his own family was... well, it was different. New.

He extended his index finger and touched the baby's little hand, watching in fascination as the impossibly small fingers promptly wrapped around it with a surprisingly strong grip.

"Do you already have a name?" Sherlock asked, realising that he'd never asked. He didn't even know if it was a boy or a girl – much less an alpha, omega, or beta. He just hoped above all that Mycroft wouldn't continue the ridiculous family tradition of giving the child a highly unusual name which would create enormous difficulties during childhood.

"Archibald," Anthea said. "After my grandfather."

_Well... it isn't the worst..._

"Archie."

*

Sherlock confronted Mycroft the day after the birth. Anthea was still in hospital, but Mycroft was at home, astonishingly enough, working in his study rather than at the office.

Sherlock pushed the door open and marched up to the desk, slapped his hands down on the desktop, and roared at his brother:

"What the hell is your problem?!"

But Mycroft didn't take the bait.

"You're never here, you spend as little time as possible with your omega, hanging out all night with Lestrade instead! Do you have any idea how that looks?!" Sherlock asked agitatedly.

Mycroft lowered his eyes and pursed his mouth, but didn't respond.

"You can't deny it any longer, Mycroft! What you're doing is wrong! It's disgusting and unnatural! You cannot expect Anthea to stay with you when behind her back – when you and some alpha – Fuck! You disgust me!" The palms of Sherlock's hands stung and tingled from the blow to the table, and his throat was in flames from the harsh words

"You don't know what you're talking about, Sherlock." Months later, Sherlock would recall the icy chill in his brother's voice at that moment. "I am not having an affair with another alpha. How can you even dare suggest such a thing?"

Sherlock straightened up and extended a single accusatory finger in his brother's direction. "But you want to! You may have great control over your face and your emotions, Mycroft, but your scent doesn't lie. It's there – in those tiny moments when a chink shows in your armour. No matter how hard you may try to disguise it. The people who know you best, know it. It doesn't do any good to barricade yourself in your office all day!"

After that speech, Mycroft was possessed of at least enough decency to appear slightly guilty. But then he turned the tables and went on the attack.

"What right do you have to pass judgment on me? You, of all people?! You've refused to accept your nature ever since you could walk, trying to find a cure for your natural-born privileges, cost what it may. You should be happy you were born an omega and found an alpha who puts up with all of your ridiculous quirks and obsessions. Someone who doesn't force you to live your life like any other bloody alpha or omega. Someone who respects you, even though you've given him absolutely no reason to!"

Mycroft folded his hands on top of the desk, as if to stop himself from jumping up and attacking his brother with something other than words.

"You above all should know what it's like to be different and yearn for a life that isn't yours to live. A life you can only hope that one day will be possible for others of your ilk. But no, instead you accuse me for doing the _one_ thing I can to preserve my family from breaking down entirely."

He stood, rising to his full height before Sherlock, and pointed at him in turn.

"If you believe you need to pump yourself full of drugs in order to endure your bond, you're no better than I, Sherlock. At least I gave my omega the child she always wanted. What have you done for your alpha? What have you ever done for anyone other than yourself?"

*

Sherlock watched the barrel empty as he depressed the plunger. The static in his head immediately ceased, and a pleasant calm spread through his jittery nerves. He withdrew the needle from his arm and set the syringe aside, gratefully accepting the wipe that Wiggins handed him and pressing it onto the injection site.

Nine months had passed since Archie was born. Sherlock hadn't seen either him or Anthea since. He'd fallen out with Mycroft so hard that he couldn't imagine their relationship ever being repaired. It hurt to know that the little boy would be growing up in a household without a father figure – not because Anthea had separated from Mycroft, but because nothing at all had changed about their situation.

Mycroft was still working day and night, spending as little time as possible with his family while Anthea sat in her golden cage, being sucked ever deeper into the vortex of a depression she couldn't get under control. She seemed to have abandoned all hope for an improvement in her bond since Mycroft hadn't shown up for Archie's birth.

It had actually taken a full day before Mycroft turned up at the hospital to see his omega and the new baby. He'd said he was working all night on a project for the British government, but neither Sherlock nor Anthea had been able to tell by his scent whether there was any truth to the statement or not.

As it turned out, Mycroft was anything but pleased with the name that Anthea had given to the hospital staff. He had wanted to give the child a Holmesian name – a traditional name – but Anthea had at least taken that liberty and in doing so instigated a silent war that she could only lose in the long run. Mycroft could have easily changed the name, but in a moment of weakness and guilty conscience had signed the affidavit and ended the discussion forever.

Perhaps that was the only admission he was able – or wanted – to make to his wife.

If it had been up to Sherlock, that would not have been nearly enough, but his hands were tied. He had no say in it; not that he ever had. After his house arrest was over – Mycroft had at least allowed that – they had broken off all contact with each other.

Where DI Lestrade was concerned, not much had changed. Sherlock couldn't tell whether the Inspector was having any kind of untoward contact with his brother – or had had in the past. They continued to cooperate on cases – and honestly Sherlock didn't want that to change. He was glad he'd found something that was not only entertaining, but fulfilled him.

Maybe he'd been wrong, and Lestrade wasn't the actual target of Mycroft's concupiscent interest. Or he'd turned him down. The only way he'd probably ever find out was by asking him – and there was no way Sherlock wanted to risk that.

Sherlock had returned to Montague Street and already scouted out a new dealer a few days after settling in. Wiggins was a lucky draw. A beta himself, he had no problem selling the drug to desperate omegas. He was a chemist and had a good network of contacts to supply him with the various substances necessary to manufacture Seven without running the risk of being caught.

They met once or twice a month, depending how critical Sherlock's needs were. And through those contacts, a sort of friendship developed between them. Well, friendship might not have been the right word for it, but they spent quite a bit of time together whenever Sherlock wasn't involved in a case. It was obvious that Wiggins was interested in more than Sherlock's company, but Sherlock always brushed off his advances.

Until today.

A couple of weeks had already gone by before Sherlock realised something was wrong. He needed Seven more frequently than ever, even though he'd always kept his consumption at the lowest possible level and regulated it carefully. Just enough to get John out of his system and numb the indescribable longing, but not nearly enough to create a true high like that one time in Camden.

But now he sensed John again, stronger than ever, as if the alpha were feeling things more intensely, undergoing more profound emotions, maybe even love. Had John found someone who'd stolen his heart? Someone who completed him? Who loved him the way... the way he deserved?

Sherlock burst into Wiggins' stinking dump of a place and grabbed the beta by the collar.

"I need Seven, do you have any here?!" he demanded, his gaze boring into the man's widened eyes.

"The new batch isn't ready yet, Shez. I've only got two doses here," Wiggins said, licking his dry lips with his eyes latched onto Sherlock's mouth.

"Sell them to me."

"No can do, I've already promised them to someone else."

"Come on!" Sherlock barked, pushing Wiggins up against the crowded kitchen table. "I need it now! I can't – I don't want to feel the way he – "

"Sorry, man, but..."

Sherlock scraped a few crumpled banknotes out of his trouser pocket and smashed them against Wiggins' chest. "I'll pay more than usual. What more do you want?!" The immediate proximity to the junkie coupled with his sour breath made Sherlock's stomach roil with nausea. He watched the corner of Wiggins' mouth twitch, a nervous tic when he felt that he was being hassled. Or was it... a mischievous grin?

Sherlock felt a surge of arousal in his groin that definitely didn't belong to him. _John._ Panic overwhelmed him, making him tighten his hold until Wiggins wheezed for air.

"Okay, okay. I'll give it to you... But only if you give me something too," the beta said with a dark gleam in his eye.

Sherlock barely flinched when the beta took hold of his free hand and guided it to his crotch. Underneath the thick jeans material, Sherlock could feel the firm contour of a burgeoning erection. Wiggins' grin broadened.

"I'm not asking for much, Shez. I know I can't have you, but... a little helping hand wouldn't be too much to ask, would it?"

Sherlock looked down at his hand in disgust and played with the idea of squeezing so hard that Wiggins would never so much as consider asking anyone for a favour like this again. But... then he wouldn't get his dose, and he'd need to feel John getting off with his new partner. On balance, how bad would a couple of minutes be of begrudging contact with a stupid beta who was too short-sighted to ask anything more of him?

"If I must... but I want to have some of the stuff first. I'll take the rest with me."

"Deal," Wiggins replied with a filthy smile.

Sherlock watched tensely as Wiggins prepared the syringe. He was so practised that it didn't take more than a minute. Then he took out the tourniquet and tied it around Sherlock's right bicep.

Sherlock squeezed his hand into a fist several times to pump up his vein. They'd done this so often that it almost felt like a choreographed dance routine. He watched Wiggins palpate the area for a vein with his first two fingers before disinfecting the site and inserting the needle. He pushed down the plunger, leaning forward at the same time to give Sherlock a kiss. But Sherlock pushed his face away with his palm.

"Forget it, none of that. Give me the rest first," he said and released the tourniquet. He ripped the needle out of his arm and dropped it carelessly onto the table, rolling his sleeve back down without dabbing the blood away from the injection site, and gave Wiggins a challenging look.

The latter handed the remaining vial over to Sherlock. "Now for your payment..."

"Yes, fine, turn around and open your flies," Sherlock said while shoving the vial into his trouser pocket. He reluctantly approached the other man. "Lean on that," he said and indicated the kitchen table with his chin.

Wiggins did as he was told.

Sherlock was slowly starting to feel the effects of the drug. Everything around him went fuzzy and soft around the edges: his confusing feelings, his defence mechanisms, and the echo of John's lust faded into the background.

He reached one arm around Wiggins and into his pants, feeling for the other man's half-hard dick. He swallowed thickly. This was the first time he'd touched anyone other than himself. It was... weird. An unspectacular piece of flesh in his hand that firmed up within the space of a few heartbeats, gradually moving into an upright position. Moisture welled out of the tip, making the friction smoother.

Sherlock was aware of the beta's breathing getting faster. His fingers gripped the table top harder, and he was making little grunting sounds. But Sherlock didn't care about any of that. He felt nothing at all: neither sympathy for the beta's arousal, nor lust, nor even disgust. His mind was as serene as the surface of a lake, disturbed by nothing and no one. He let himself sink deeper into the trancelike state as his hand mechanically moved on the other man's cock until he reared back and stiffened in ecstasy. He blurted out a blasphemous obscenity and ejaculated all over the kitchen's laminated floor.

Before he'd even caught his breath, Sherlock had washed his hands and was on his way out the door of the flat.

+++

tbc


	15. Chapter 15

** _Two years and four months earlier_ **

A new nurse had joined John's team a couple of weeks ago. He liked her from the get-go: she was clever, competent, and had a subtle, dry sense of humour that often helped the patients forget their worries, and struck a chord with John right away. She also couldn't have cared less about the alpha-beta dynamic in the camp. On the contrary, she often strolled into the officer's mess as if she belonged there, grabbed a beer from the icebox, and sat down with the alphas as if she were one of them.

She was unflappable. No matter whether she was mopping up blood, vomit, or a fellow soldier's shit, splinting open fractures, or buried up to her elbows in a patient's abdomen. There was nothing that could touch her sangfroid, and she brightened up the tense atmosphere with her cheerful demeanour.

John was already impressed by all of that even before he noticed the twinkle in her blue eyes or her pretty smile.

Her name was Mary.

He spent a lot of time with her on the wards as a matter of course. But even outside his on-call hours, John found himself enjoying the nurse's company more and more. He liked the way she kept trying to tuck her blonde hair behind her ears, as if she weren't used to having such a short haircut. He liked the little creases that formed at the corners of her eyes when she indulged in a belly laugh, and the way she looked at him when she thought no one was watching. And he also liked the fledgling butterflies in his stomach whenever he was around her or even entertained thoughts of her – which was starting to happen more frequently.

On top of that, they had a lot in common. She shared his passion for films and mysteries, had a similar sense of humour – which presumably didn't appeal to everyone – and loved practicing medicine. They were both excellent marksmen, despite not serving on the front lines. And as chance would have it, they came from similar backgrounds; in fact, they hadn't grown up far from each other, although their paths had never crossed. All of these things brought them closer, and ensured that John developed a case of puppy love late one Afghan summer.

It was the first time in a long while that John felt an urge to connect more closely with a beta. Of course, he'd had romantic partners before and had even fancied himself in love. But the feeling that Mary stirred up in him was something more intense. Something more than a simple case of mutual attraction and lust. Something that deserved to be handled with care and patience.

Mary seemed to feel the same, as she kept trying to get close to John and apparently very much enjoyed the time they spent together. At the same time, she didn't treat him with the extreme respect that society might have demanded given his rank and alpha status, nor did she seem to be gasping for his alpha cock in order to fulfil some long-held fantasy like many of the other beta servicemen and -women who vied for John's interest. No, she approached John with a dose of guts and sarcasm, along with a charismatic charm.

He ascribed the strange tightening in his stomach that he felt the first time he kissed Mary to those same butterflies. Just as he did the abrupt sense of emptiness followed by an unnatural high the first time she spread her legs and he cautiously penetrated her. His climax when he spurted into her was wonderful and intense, but was followed immediately by a deep sense of regret. Not over the act itself, but rather due to the emotions it triggered in him. At the same time, he couldn't help seeing Sherlock's haughty features in his mind's eye.

_You wouldn't be cheating on me._

_Feel free to do whatever you want, with whomever you want._

_Just ignore my existence._

_It's not as if I'll be around._

_Take a mistress and have fun._

Maybe that was the problem right there: Mary wasn't a _mistress_...

*

As autumn approached, John pushed any thoughts of Sherlock further into the back of his mind. He knew he didn't have a future with the omega, and it was about time for him to accept that fact in its entirety. Sherlock had made that quite clear from the beginning and never given any indication of wanting to change anything about the situation. On the contrary: he'd never reacted to any of John's intermittent letters or responded after John had turned up in Kensington last winter.

Of course, John had no idea whether Mycroft Holmes had even told Sherlock about his unannounced visit. Probably not. But maybe he had. Which only made the fact that Sherlock was ignoring his very existence even more obvious. It wouldn't do any good to complain or God forbid go so far as to fantasise about ridiculous, unattainable castles in the sky. It was time to grab life by the horns and make his next move.

He enjoyed his burgeoning feelings for Mary, and bore with a grin the well-meaning ribbing from his alpha buddies whenever he snuck out of Mary's quarters with a goofy smile on his face. Even Bill seemed to like the beta, despite dropping occasional remarks about John's bond. As if she were trying to remind John that someone was waiting for him back home.

Of course, Bill knew just as well as John that that wasn't the case. Still, ever since the artificial insemination from an anonymous donor had been successful and she and Cilia were expecting their first child, Bill seemed more convinced than ever of the merits of a traditional alpha-omega partnership.

John didn't need Bill's needling to recall his bond; he was well aware of it himself. Whether he wanted it or not, whether he forbade himself from thinking about it or hoping for something to happen, part of Sherlock always seemed to be with him, like a non-corporeal entity. Invisible yet always there. A figment buried somewhere in his subconscious.

Fortunately, Mary didn't consider John's bond an obstacle to their relationship, for one leisurely afternoon, when he tangled his fingers with hers and whispered, "I think I'm falling in love with you," in her ear, she kissed him more intensely than ever before. The smile on her rosy lips spoke volumes, and the sex that followed was marked by a tenderness that was an entirely new experience for John. For the first time in a long while, he felt happy, and afterwards he tugged the beta closer to his bare chest and fell into a relaxed sleep.

*

John woke a short while later, disorientated, with a searing pain shooting through his body and Mary frantically crying his name and shaking his shoulder.

"John, John! Please... what's wrong? Wake up!"

"No... air... " he gasped and scrabbled at his throat until he was able to draw a rattling breath.

He struggled to open his eyes, then stared up at the ceiling, panic squeezing his throat shut even as he felt like he was about to throw up. Gagging and coughing, he let Mary turn him onto his side and emptied the contents of his stomach over the edge of the bed onto the floor. Waves of pain, nausea and fear roiled through his body.

"Sher... lock..."

Tears shot into his eyes as he lowered himself out of bed and crawled on hands and knees to the trunk where he kept his personal possessions. He tried to work the hinges, his fingers shaking, but he didn't have enough strength to lift the lid.

"John, what's the matter?" Mary sobbed.

"Help me..." He indicated the trunk, and once Mary had opened the metal lid for him, he numbly pawed through the papers, photographs, and letters.

Black spots danced before his eyes, and he kept sucking in frantic breaths, worried he was going to faint. The panic made him hyperventilate, and he realised that his face was damp with tears. He roughly swiped at his eyes and cheeks with the balls of his hands, and scrunched his nose. Finally, with a sense of relief, he found the card he was looking for in the furthest corner of the trunk, and held it to his chest so it wouldn't slip out of his trembling fingers and flutter to the floor.

"Phone..." he croaked, pointing at his mobile phone on the small nightstand.

He shook his head when Mary held the device out to him, instead pressing the cream-coloured calling card with golden lettering into her hand.

"Dial..."

Mary wrinkled her brow, looking utterly bewildered when she saw that it was a London number. Nonetheless, she wasted no time entering the digits and held the phone to John's ear when it started to ring.

John grasped Mary's wrist with one hand and the plastic phone in the other like a drowning man, listening to the tones. After the fifth ring, a nasal voice finally answered.

"He's dying..." John sobbed without stating his name. "Please, find him. He's _dying!"_

John couldn't say anything else before the phone slipped out of his hand and a black cloak of unconsciousness wafted down over him.

*

When John came to, it was the middle of the night. He whimpered softly and blinked at the bright light shining into his pupils. Pain shot through his head, and he raised one feeble hand to shield his eyes. His throat felt raw and scorched, something was thudding dully against his sternum, and there was an unpleasant twinge in his left arm. He carefully lowered his hand from his face and slowly opened his eyes again.

The glaring brightness turned out to be a lamp on the nightstand, radiating dim light beside him. The pain in his arm came from an IV needle. He wasn't in his own bed; he was in the sick bay.

_What the hell..._

John looked around, confused. Why was he here? And where was Mary?

Bill sat slumped in an unhealthy position on a visitor's chair, her head tilted back and snoring lightly.

"Bill?" John croaked and tried to sit up.

The alpha's eyes flew open immediately and focused on John before she smiled at him with relief.

"Hey, buddy. Nice to have you back. Lie down." She pushed John's shoulder firmly back down onto the mattress, the meaning clear. "How are you feeling?"

"Thirsty..."

Bill nodded and quickly stood up to fetch John a cup of water. She held the straw to his lips to make it easier for him to drink, supporting his head with her other hand.

"Take it easy, yeah? Not too much at once."

The cool water combatted the burning in his throat to provide a measure of relief, and calmed his gurgling stomach. After a few more sips, he sank back down onto the mattress with a sigh and closed his eyes. He was tired and wanted nothing more than to fall back asleep until he felt better and –

"Oh my God! Sherlock!" Adrenaline shot through his body, making him sit up with a start. "Where's my phone? Bill? Where's my bloody phone?"

"Calm down, John." Bill put one hand on his chest, which was rising and falling at a frantic pace. "Inhale and exhale. We don't want any panic attacks. In... and out, with me now. That's right."

Bill breathed in synch with John until he'd calmed down enough not to hyperventilate. Only then did she place John's phone into his trembling hand.

He quickly unlocked the screen and saw that he'd received several texts. An icy claw grabbed hold of his heart. He was afraid to open the texts and face the worst. His mouth filled with bitter gall as he finally tapped the menu.

_21:45, unknown number  
We've found him. MH _

_21:48, unknown number  
He's alive. MH _

_23:19, unknown number  
He's stable. MH_

_23:20, unknown number  
Thank you. MH _

John sobbed with relief, let the phone drop into his lap, and buried his face in his hands to hide his tears. He felt the mattress dip beside him as Bill sat down, then wrapped an arm around John's shoulders and tugged him closer.

"Shhh..."

"He's alive. Thank God, he's alive."

He clung to Bill as she rubbed his back and he soaked her t-shirt with his tears. And as he did, he felt it. Very faint and fragile, but unmistakably there. Sherlock's presence and the link to him.

"He's alive... my omega... my Sherlock..."

It wasn't until much later, after he'd gulped down a sandwich and drunk a cup of coffee, that John felt he was ready to ask Bill what had happened. He barely remembered anything other than the all-engulfing panic and the knowledge that his omega was in a life-threatening situation.

The other alpha gave him a brief summary of what Mary had told her, and then related what had happened after John had been brought to the sick bay. It wasn't much, since he had been unconscious most of the time or crying out for his omega in a shaky, sweaty delirium. The experienced doctors and nurses recognised what they were dealing with, but couldn't do much more than stabilise John and set up an IV with saline solution and a sedative.

John rubbed his chest, his face twisted in pain. "Are you sure they didn't have to restart my heart? It feels like my sternum is cracked."

Bill lifted her eyebrows and gave John a sympathetic look. "Completely sure, John. It wasn't _you_ that the cardiac massage was performed on."

"Oh..."

John squeezed his right hand into a fist while he groped for the Thermos with the other to pour himself another cup of coffee.

"Where's Mary anyway?" he asked. Less out of any real interest than out of the need to change the subject.

"She was here, until I sent her off to get some sleep." Bill shrugged casually. "It was hard for her. She doesn't understand..."

"What?" John said, although he already knew what the answer was.

"The dynamic of a bond. What it means to belong to an omega. And in your case, maybe even a soul bond..."

"Oh please. You're not starting with that now too, are you?"

"John," Bill chuckled dryly. "You have to admit that was more than a little extreme."

"Nonsense!" John growled. "Neither of us has ever been in a situation like that before. How should we know what's extreme and what isn't? And even if there were such a thing – which I'm not saying I believe in it – Sherlock would hate it with every fibre of his being."

In addition, the idea of being soul-bonded to a partner who had made it crystal clear that there was no place in his life for John made him feel a deep sense of panic. A run-of-the-mill bond was one thing, but a link between their souls was something else altogether.

His mouth set in a grim line, John picked up his phone from the nightstand and typed in a short message:

_Please keep my involvement to yourself. He doesn't need to know. JW_

*

A short while later, another form of pain lanced John's heart when he saw tears welling up in a pair of cornflower blue eyes.

"There's nothing wrong with you, Mary. But it just wouldn't work."

"You said you were falling in love..."

"And I am!"

"… but you love him more..."

"Yes... No! It's different. You saw what happened. Whether I want it or not, he's always there, a part of me, and... I'm not free, Mary. It wouldn't be fair to you. I am so, so sorry."

Even before John was released from sick bay, Mary had submitted her transfer and left the base.

** _Present day_ **

John would have liked to talk to Sherlock again about the self-help book he'd found. But there hadn't been an opportunity yet to discuss "How to Fall in Love." John was entertained by the fact that it was already in its 32nd printing. He and Sherlock apparently weren't the only ones with the same problem. A comforting thought, even if it didn't really help them.

At the moment, he didn't have any inclination to endanger the fragile cease-fire – as Sherlock had called their current situation. Especially now that John sensed instinctively that Sherlock's next heat was rapidly approaching.

John had been cooking more over the past few days, stocked up on groceries, and felt the same possessive restlessness he'd experienced during the last heat but hadn't been able to identify as such back then. He was gratified to see Sherlock had reduced his contact to the alpha policeman to a minimum and reverted to nesting mode – a thoroughly atypical behaviour pattern for him. John had to bite his tongue on more than one occasion in order not to make an approving comment on Sherlock's industriousness.

John had already informed the clinic that he would be needing to take some time off soon. Fortunately, sick pay applied to heats and covered any lost work hours so that neither alphas nor the handful of omegas who were part of the labour force needed to worry about loss of income. Redundancy due to missing work for heats had also been illegal for decades.

Sarah had acknowledged John's announcement with a melancholy smile. Things were still a bit awkward between them. John hoped very much that their relationship would normalise with time.

The scent in the flat had changed markedly over the last few days. It was heavier, sweeter, and clung to everything. It had the effect of John seeking out Sherlock's company more than usual, during which he had to force himself not to make any physical contact. He would have loved to wrap his arms around his omega, inhale his heady scent, and exchange chaste caresses. But of course anything like that was off-limits.

Late one evening, John came out of the bathroom in his pyjamas and dressing gown after having a shower and sat down on the couch to watch some TV. He glanced over at Sherlock, who was lurking around the living room in a similar state of attire, and patted the cushion beside him.

"Want to watch some telly with me? They're showing a documentary on unsolved crimes of the 19th century. I thought you might like it?"

Without waiting for a response, he flicked on the television and flipped through the channels until he got to the right one. He suppressed a smile when a blue dressing gown drifted past him and Sherlock settled on the furthest edge of the couch. Out of the corner of his eye, John saw Sherlock draw the silky material closer around his body, pull his legs up, and focus on the screen with apparent interest.

John tried to concentrate on the programme. But he was much too distracted by Sherlock's delicious scent, which seemed to be getting stronger by the minute. The omega was also shifting restlessly back and forth on the cushions, rubbing himself against the leather without seeming to be aware of doing so. He looked sweaty, perhaps even a little feverish. A few dark curls stuck to the back of his neck, and his skin was a shade pinker than usual. John licked his lips when Sherlock tilted his head back with a light sigh and ran two fingers down the damp skin of his throat.

John automatically dug his fingernails into the balls of his hands to stop himself from closing the gap between them and holding Sherlock close. The urge to be close to his omega, to drink in his aphrodisiacal fragrance and await the final arrival of his heat in a safe cocoon of pillows and blankets was becoming nearly unbearable. John was almost grateful when Sherlock got up during the first commercial break and went into the kitchen.

"What are you doing?" John asked automatically.

"Getting a glass of water. Or am I not allowed to do that?" Sherlock grumbled, refusing to look at John, and stalked into the next room.

John sighed and rubbed his palms against his thighs before adjusting his half-hard dick through his pyjama trousers. He'd been aroused for hours now, but neither a hurried jerk in the shower nor the gruesome descriptions of the various killings in the documentary had mitigated his condition. John was just wondering whether he should use the break to go upstairs to masturbate again, when he heard a glass break in the sink and Sherlock moan loudly. Before he could even ask what had happened, a wave of Sherlock's scent flooded John's senses. He sprang to his feet, shook off his dressing gown, and tore off his t-shirt before he'd even made it to the kitchen.

Sherlock stood with his back to John. His head lowered, he grasped the countertop as hard as he could, his breaths coming in stuttering gasps. The scent was much stronger here, and multiplied John's arousal exponentially. His mouth filled with the familiar taste of honey when he ran his tongue across his lips. Still, he needed to be sure.

"Yes?" he asked, and was inordinately relieved to see Sherlock's frantic nod.

He approached the omega and cautiously ran his hands from Sherlock's white knuckles up to his biceps. His fingers found their way inside the open lapels of Sherlock's dressing gown. Slowly and reverently, he nudged the material down off Sherlock's shoulders and let it glide to the floor. He slipped his hand inside Sherlock's t-shirt and stroked his warm skin up to his nipples, which contracted to stiff peaks under John's fingers. He signalled to Sherlock to lift his arms so he could take off the t-shirt.

"John..." the omega whimpered softly when John nuzzled his nose against the nape of Sherlock's neck and inhaled noisily.

"Finally!"

Sherlock's delicious scent flooded John's body down to the last cell, making him moan with pleasure. He automatically licked the silver ridge of the scar and brushed a kiss over it, then watched approvingly as goosebumps formed on the back of Sherlock's neck, making the fine hairs stand on end when he scraped his teeth over the skin there.

"Finally!"

_"Ah..."_

John pressed his stiff cock up against Sherlock's backside, while Sherlock in turn pushed his arse backwards to rub against John. He needed to get inside Sherlock. Now. Right away! He and Sherlock impatiently tugged at each other's pyjama bottoms until they were both naked. Then he turned the trembling omega around and pushed him toward the kitchen table. Sherlock took the hint and slid up onto the tabletop, watching John from hooded eyes.

John immediately surged in between Sherlock's legs and embraced the omega, pulling him close to bury his face in the crook of Sherlock's neck. He drew the delicate skin there in between his teeth and nibbled at it. Sherlock tangled his fingers in the hair at the back of John's head as if he weren't sure whether to hold him in place or drag him away. However, there was no misinterpretation possible when he braced his free hand on the table and tilted his pelvis up toward John.

"Please... John..."

"Does it still hurt from... the other time?" John asked, hinting at the unfortunate night when Sherlock's failed experiment had provoked an unnatural heat.

Sherlock shook his head. "No, everything's fine..."

"Oh? Show me!"

John pushed down on Sherlock's torso so that his back was resting on the wooden tabletop. Then he grasped the backs of Sherlock's knees, bent his legs up, and placed his feet onto the table. He greedily wiped his mouth and took a step back to get a good look at his omega. His splayed thighs, his stiff omega cock, his plump, round balls and his arse crack which was already glistening with promise.

_Finally..._

Sherlock watched John, his breaths quivering and his hands pressed firmly against the table. John was at Sherlock's side again in a single step, ran one finger through the fluid that had already leaked out of him, and stuck it in his mouth. Bewitched by the aphrodisiacal essence, he scarcely registered Sherlock's helpless whimper.

"I need to taste you... pull back on your knees," John growled. When Sherlock complied, John bent over and spread his arse cheeks. At the sight of his moist hole, John's mouth started watering and he had to swallow thickly.

John didn't waste any time licking Sherlock's pulsating ring of muscles, his testicles, and finally his cock, sucking the entire slender erection into his mouth.

"Oh my God..." Sherlock moaned. His head thudded dully against the table.

John reluctantly pulled back and straightened up. His omega tasted exquisite, and he wanted nothing more than to drink the essence directly from the source... eventually. But right now, he needed to be inside Sherlock. John was painfully hard. His erection throbbed with every beat of his heart, producing a large bead of pre-cum as he shoved first two, then three fingers into Sherlock's arse.

"I want you. Tell me I can have you!" John said when he withdrew his fingers and positioned the head of his cock in front of the twitching sphincter.

"Yes. Please do it... _yes..._"

John had to bite down on his bottom lip so as not to cry out loud as he sank inside Sherlock's tight channel bit by bit. Sherlock seemed to feel the same. His mouth stretched wide in a silent groan, he leaned his head back, arched his spine, and lifted his body up as far as he could from the table until John filled him completely.

"Finally..." John sighed and pulled back, only to plunge right back inside, feeling the way the body beneath him yielded.

After several hard thrusts, John slid his hands underneath Sherlock's back and pulled the omega up. He wanted to be closer to Sherlock; needed to. He wanted to wrap himself around his omega and never let him go, to make up for all the lost weeks without physical contact.

Sherlock let out a gasp of surprise when John hugged him and held him close.

"Hold on," John growled as he steadied Sherlock and lifted him off the table.

"Oh God," Sherlock wheezed, crossing his arms behind John's neck and his legs around John's hips. At the same time, he arched his pelvis forward and squeezed his internal muscles together so that John's cock wouldn't fall out of him during the manoeuvre.

John pushed Sherlock against the nearest wall and put his hands underneath Sherlock's knees to have a firmer grip on him, then resumed his thrusts.

"John..."

"God, I've missed you..." he panted, gazing into the face of his omega, contorted with pleasure. His bottom lip was caught between his teeth, his pupils so wide that barely any of his pale irises was visible. Hot breath wafted across John's face as he hungrily licked his lips.

"I'm going to kiss you now. We're not doing it this time without kissing, got it?!"

John almost didn't wait for Sherlock's nod of approval before pressing his mouth to his omega's.

_Finally..._

Surprised by the vehemence with which Sherlock responded to his kiss, John opened his mouth to allow Sherlock's probing tongue entrance. The omega licked, bit, and sucked on John's lips, buried his fingers in John's hair, and moaned with abandon. Goosebumps rose on the back of John's neck, and he could already feel the root of his cock beginning to throb as his knot awoke.

"Sher... we need..." He couldn't consummate the act while standing. "...bedroom."

He let go of Sherlock's legs, shifting to grab his arse with one hand and support his lower back with the other, while Sherlock helped by tightening his grip around John's neck. John cautiously set out for the bedroom, all the while engaging Sherlock in a series of heated kisses.

"Door..." John panted.

Sherlock took the hint, freed one hand from its clinch around John's neck, and felt for the door handle behind him.

John carried Sherlock to the bed, blind with lust and caught up in their passionate embrace. Against all odds, he managed to situate them both on the bed without having to pull his cock out. He pushed Sherlock's arms up over his head and tangled their fingers together. With slow, steady thrusts, he pistoned in deep, kissing every inch of skin he could reach.

"You feel... incredible..." he panted into the crook of Sherlock's neck. "There's no one else like you."

Here, in the semi-darkness of the bedroom, John finally wanted to say what had been eating away at his soul. He tightened his grip on Sherlock's hands amidst hungry kisses and steady thrusts.

"I want you to know that I'm sorry."

"Hm?" Sherlock grunted, caught in a tug-of-war between lust and incomprehension.

"That you were subjected to the experience of me being with other people. But you have to believe me... _hgnn..._ there's no one like you. You're incredible. You're unique. You're... _ohh..._ my ome... _ahh..._"

John squeezed Sherlock's fingers as he forced his knot into his omega and his orgasm washed over him like a tsunami. He hadn't realised how close he was to coming, and the intensity caught him completely off guard. He heard Sherlock groan loudly beneath him, his back arching, and felt hot semen hitting his stomach and chest as Sherlock climaxed too.

He lazily rode out the last couple of waves of his orgasm, kissing his way up Sherlock's neck to his lips.

"I mean it. I'm sorry, and..."

"John, please. I don't want to talk abou – _ah..._" John silenced Sherlock by jerking his pelvis forward and burying his knot a little deeper inside.

"… and it won't happen again."

*

Later, after his knot had deflated and Sherlock lay dozing on his stomach, his head resting on his crossed arms, John set himself the task of kissing and memorising every mole, freckle, and scar on Sherlock's back.

The lamp on the nightstand gave off just enough light without illuminating the intimate atmosphere too harshly. When John worked his way up to Sherlock's right shoulder and tenderly licked the mark he'd left there five years earlier, it occurred to him to bring up another topic that had been niggling at him for a while now.

"Sherlock? Can I ask you something?"

"Hmhm..." his omega replied lazily.

"The pheromone blocker. Are you still working on it?"

"Of course I am. And don't even think about forbidding me."

Sherlock's muscles tensed up noticeably. John lay a soothing hand on his hip and caressed it tenderly. He had to chuckle a little at how quickly Sherlock had lost it at the question. But at least the omega wasn't immediately running off.

"That's not what I meant. I understand why you're researching it. I really do. It's just... have you ever considered the risks associated with a blocker like that?

"What are you talking about?" Sherlock asked irritably. He pushed himself up on his elbows and turned his head far enough to give John a venomous glare.

John sighed and continued dropping butterfly kisses down Sherlock's spine as he mustered the courage to open up about a chapter of his life he was none too proud of. Between caresses and tender brushes of his lips, he related the ugly incident in the Afghan brothel. He was grateful that he didn't have to look Sherlock in the eye, he was that ashamed of what his kind was capable of. Still, each time Sherlock inhaled in shock, clicked his tongue in disbelief, or tensed his muscles, John felt as if he were being slapped across the face.

"… so if you think about what the wrong dose of that blocker might do. The forced heat, the lubrication issues, the hyperactive sex drive... In the wrong hands, it could do a lot of damage. It could force omegas into a nonstop heat. Brothels, pimps, anyone really could use it to their own ends, and..."

"And?" Sherlock prompted in a low voice.

"… and the thought of an omega – of _you_ – being exposed to a risk like that scares me half to death."

"You? Scared?" Sherlock asked sceptically.

"Of course I'm scared something might happen to you. I don't know what I'd... I'm just asking you to take it into consideration the next time you work on it, all right?"

John heard Sherlock's nod by the rustling of the pillow. "I'll bear it in mind, and – _oh..._"

Sherlock inhaled sharply in surprise when John found a sensitive spot on his lower back and dragged his tongue over it.

John smiled and sucked a little harder on the spot. He could tell that the tension now spreading through Sherlock's body was of a different sort, and the scent in the room promptly shifted.

"I just want you to be safe and healthy," John murmured, kissed the dimples on either side of Sherlock's spine, and bit gently into the upper curve of his buttocks. "… for you to feel good. For you to relax..."

+++

tbc


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heed the tags!

**Present day**

"John?!" Heat shot into Sherlock's face when he realised how high and panicky his voice sounded all of a sudden. It felt like John had been kissing his back forever, tracing every curve and angle with his lips and tongue, interrupted only by a couple of disjointed words whispered into Sherlock's skin.

At some point, he'd started talking about the pheromone blocker – and that abhorrent brothel. About the omegas who had been held there, only to be tossed to some random alphas like so much fresh meat. Sherlock recalled all too well how he'd felt John's proximity to at least one omega some years back; the way he'd numbed himself in order not to have to feel John hooking up with another omega.

But according to John's story, he hadn't even participated in that orgy, instead hightailing it out of there as soon as he could. He hadn't taken advantage of those omegas' weakness and vulnerability in order to satisfy his own lust...

And yet after hearing those words, Sherlock's initial reaction had been to leap to his feet in a fury. But he was already completely exhausted from the fever that had plagued him all day, and from the initial outbreak of his heat in the kitchen.

It was different than his first heat, during which Sherlock had had to provide his own relief for hours on end – a completely useless endeavour, in the event. Instead, this time John had been with him, had undressed him and pushed him up against the kitchen table and then penetrated him a short while later.

They'd slunk around all day, more or less covertly watching each other when they thought the other one wasn't looking. But neither had dared to initiate contact before the fever had reached its zenith.

_I want you to know that I'm sorry. That you were subjected to the experience of me being with other people. But you have to believe me... there's no one like you. _

_You're incredible. You're unique. You're... _ohh..._ my ome... _ahh...

John's words still echoed in Sherlock's head, triggering a queer sensation in his stomach. It was hard for him to tell whether what John had said was the truth, or merely a means of making Sherlock more agreeable. How was he supposed to know whether John was taking advantage of Sherlock's already flustered state of mind to satisfy his own urges first and foremost?

But now – now John was doing something that Sherlock had never thought possible. He'd never heard of alphas doing anything like this; after all, their sole and only interest was in getting their knot inside an omega as quickly as possible... right?

Sherlock grunted out a puff of air when John's right arm wriggled its way underneath Sherlock's stomach and dragged him backwards a short distance. Simultaneously, he felt John kneading the flesh of his left buttock with his other hand and biting it lightly before depositing several kisses on the right side. A hot and cold shiver trickled down Sherlock's spine and his heart thundered inside his ribcage. His erection, which lay throbbing alongside John's arm, twitched as if electrified when the alpha stroked Sherlock's perineum between his testicles and his anus with a practiced hand.

A gust of hot air hit his hot, damp skin, then another … and another. Sherlock felt as if he was going to fly apart from the balled-up tension of arousal in his body, if it didn't happen NOW– He didn't know what exactly, but he knew it had to happen. Maybe he should have felt more subjugated, more vulnerable, flayed open and virtually under the microscope of John's focus on his most intimate parts. But his brain could barely piece together enough words to be offended much less degraded by the situation.

He whimpered softly and twisted his fists harder in the sheets as more omega essence trickled out of his body, dribbling across his skin in beads. Something firm and hot caught some of the drops, smearing them around. Sherlock's first thought was of the plump head of his alpha's cock, but that was impossible. John was still holding onto him tightly, his mouth mere centimetres away from Sherlock's – oh...

Short, huffy breaths puffed across Sherlock's hole, a constant back-and-forth of hot and cold air. An image sprang to life in his mind's eye. An image of himself on top of the kitchen table, his legs pulled up, John barely visible between his splayed thighs. A tongue licking him much too briefly to really comprehend what was happening. And then an electrifying shock zipping along his nerves, only to be replaced by the all-encompassing sensation of his alpha actually _inside_ him.

But now John took his time. The tip of his tongue – first firm, then soft – probed more than licked, circling the twitching ring of muscle over and over again until he leaned in even further and pressed a kiss to the furled flesh.

Sherlock inhaled sharply, his mouth opening wide as if to moan, but the broken sound that slipped past his lips was barely audible. His face was red hot and the muscles in his pelvis and thighs were on fire, on the verge of either jerking away from that audacious tongue or surging toward it.

John switched off between teasing taps with his tongue that only stimulated the outermost nerve endings, and sucks and slurps that fairly drove Sherlock mad. He was so hard, so aroused, that it wouldn't take much to bring him to climax – and John's knot wasn't even anywhere near his prostate.

Sherlock moaned out loud when the tip of John's tongue parted his sphincter and dipped a little way inside. Reflexively, without even thinking about it, Sherlock reached back and grabbed hold of John's hair, pulling his head closer, and howled when the sensations suddenly became that much more intense.

John had started with surprise for a fraction of a second but promptly regained control over himself and pressed his face further into the crease of Sherlock's buttocks, intensifying his sucks and licks with a guttural growl. He insinuated his left arm underneath Sherlock's torso as well so he could lift his hips a little more, which had the additional effect of spreading Sherlock's arse cheeks a little further apart and widening his hole.

"I want you so much," John panted between frantic breaths. "But I want you to come first." He pushed up on Sherlock's hips from underneath until Sherlock was holding himself up on his elbows and John had enough room to turn himself around and lie down underneath him, his head at the level of Sherlock's hips. He looked up at Sherlock through the narrow space between their bodies, seeking eye contact as his hands moved over Sherlock's chest, waist, and hips.

Sherlock was fascinated by his alpha's dark, gleaming eyes as his own cock brushed John's cheek, and John's tongue darted out to flick it. The same tongue that had just... oh, God! Sherlock bit down hard on his bottom lip. His pelvis twitched forward of its own accord, causing his wet, exposed glans to leave a glistening streak on John's face.

John turned his head just far enough that he could get Sherlock's erection between his lips without using his hands. He stretched his neck and pushed down on Sherlock's arse at the same time in order to draw Sherlock's cock into his mouth all the way to the base. He released him a moment later to lick Sherlock's testicles, which had pulled up tight, suckling them between his lips and gently massaging them.

"John..."

John stopped what he was doing and looked up as if waiting for a request or directions, but when Sherlock didn't say anything, John took the reddened cock head between his lips again and played with the frenulum with his tongue. At the same time, he spread Sherlock's arse cheeks with one hand, then ran two fingers of his other hand over Sherlock's sensitive anus and carefully tapped against the opening.

A hot wave of arousal surged through Sherlock. His limbs turned to jelly and threatened to topple when those two fingertips conquered the ring of muscle and pushed inside him. But rather than letting himself fall forward away from John's mouth, he shifted his weight toward the rear and sat down. The effect being that John's fingers sank in deeper, unavoidably brushing up against the throbbing bundle of nerves inside him.

Sherlock threw his head back at the dual stimulation and moaned out loud, undecided on whether to thrust into John's mouth or intensify the friction against his prostate. A gentle pressure on his waist and a pointed look from John encouraged him to do both.

Sherlock huffed with disbelief. Didn't John want to be inside him? Take what was rightfully his?

It took Sherlock several seconds to find a satisfactory rhythm, propped up on the heels of his hands. But as soon as he did, the twin stimulation was so overwhelming that he couldn't think straight anymore. He closed his eyes and focused on the incredible feeling which was building up in his lower abdomen, driving him to greater and greater heights of ecstasy.

His skin was covered in goosebumps and icy-hot shivers ran down his spine. The arousal that collected in his groin was so concentrated he could barely endure it anymore, until it discharged with a ferocity that Sherlock had never experienced before without a knot. He felt every microsecond of John swallowing around his cock, wheezing as he grabbed breaths in between through his nose. He continued to stroke Sherlock's hypersensitive gland until the last ripple of his climax had faded. Only then did he withdraw his fingers and let go.

Sherlock rolled onto his side, breathing hard, and watched spellbound as John wrapped his hand, covered in omega essence, around his own erection and started pumping it up and down.

John let out a bit-off groan and inhaled sharply between his teeth. He wiped his wet mouth with his free hand, then promptly licked the moisture off the back of the same hand. He leaned his head back to seek out eye contact with Sherlock, giving him a rapacious look.

Sherlock swallowed thickly and sat up without taking his eyes off John. It was the first time he'd been able to observe John touching himself; the first time he had images to go with the sounds that had seeped down to him late at night. Fully erect, John's alpha cock was huge; almost alarmingly so, in fact. John's hand could barely close around it. The tips of Sherlock's fingers might just manage to touch if he replaced John's hand with his. His plump cock head was bright red and wet with pre-come and omega lubricant.

The thought of doing the same to John, of leaning over and pleasuring his alpha with his tongue, sent a tingle through Sherlock's stomach that was equal parts excitement and pure agony. It seemed completely impossible that there would be enough room in his mouth for even just the head. On the other hand, the entire organ had fit into his body several times now, all the way down to...

Sherlock exhaled sharply in shock when he saw the knot. Ignoring John's restrained moans, Sherlock scooted a little further down on the mattress to get a better look. The spongy tissue at the base of the alpha cock was swollen and flushed red. Sherlock followed the path of a thick vein that ran up the shaft and seemed to disappear under the skin of the knot.

Sherlock extended one finger, only to realise that John had almost completely stopped moving his hand and was watching Sherlock's every reaction with shallow breaths. When Sherlock touched his skin, John hissed and his pelvis shot up. The skin was hot, almost steaming, firm and unyielding. Sherlock's mouth started to water, and he swallowed hard as his fingers traced the curve of the knot.

John suddenly went taut, stretching and kicking as he flailed for something to hold onto, his eyes rolling with ecstasy. Sherlock was fascinated by how sensitive the knot was. He repeated the caress and flinched back when John's free hand grabbed the arm Sherlock was propped up on, and dug his nails in.

"Sherlock!"

The sheer desperation of the arousal in John's voice sent a powerful shudder down Sherlock's spine. He wanted to see John climax; wanted to see him giving in to the sensations and, for just a few short moments, lose control over himself. Sherlock leaned over until his face was just a few centimetres away from John's, continuing to stroke him, and gazed into John's sea blue eyes. Their lips were barely half a centimetre apart, the fragrance of omega essence heavy between them. Sherlock could taste himself in the air, mixed in with John's own scent.

He stared into John's dilated pupils as if bewitched, and whispered, "Let me see you..."

John let out a shaky breath, stretched his neck, and closed the final distance between them. Their mouths met in a downright desperate kiss. Sherlock felt John resume his motions on his cock, and in turn intensified his stimulation of John's knot. He could feel the frantic beating of John's heart beneath his taut skin.

John slung his free arm around Sherlock and pulled him deeper into the kiss. His breaths were uneven and he moaned into Sherlock's mouth, nibbling on his swollen bottom lip. Sherlock felt the knot pulsating and instinctively squeezed just before John came, tossing his head back with a loud groan. His entire body went taut, his pelvis shot upward as if being controlled by a puppeteer, and the first gush of creamy white semen spurted onto his stomach, inevitably followed by a second and then a third.

Sherlock took in the display open-mouthed, his fingers still firmly wrapped around the knot. He didn't let go until John drew him in and brought his attention to his face once more. Breathing hard, John licked his dried-out lips and brushed a few stray curls out of Sherlock's face before pulling him down and kissing him.

"You're unbelievable," he whispered, trying to catch Sherlock's eye.

Sherlock lowered his gaze and sank back down onto the mattress. He nestled in against John's side and made a quizzical sound. "I didn't even do anything..."

"More than you think..."

Sherlock looked down at John and saw the blatant evidence of his orgasm on his chest and stomach, and couldn't help smirking. Semen continued to well up out of the slit in John's still half-hard erection and collecting in his navel. The knot was throbbing in time with John's heartbeat, and – or so it seemed to Sherlock – might even have been a little frustrated that it wasn't in the spot where it belonged by nature.

"I should get something to clean up with," Sherlock said, and was about to push himself up off the mattress when John held him back.

"Don't. Stay here. Please." He gave Sherlock a look that was practically pleading. "I need you... right here. Like always."

"All right," Sherlock replied hesitantly, and snuggled up against John's shoulder again.

After a while, John craned his neck to look around at the two nightstands, apparently trying to find some tissues. Sherlock hadn't thought ahead to get any out. John carefully scooted over to one side of the bed and reached his arm out.

"Aha!" he crowed triumphantly and reeled in something from outside Sherlock's field of vision. Probably some carelessly discarded article of clothing or – oh no!

"What's this?" John asked a moment later, laughing, as he lifted the pillow Sherlock had wrapped in John's t-shirt.

Sherlock flew up into a sitting position, his face on fire, and tore the pillow out of John's hand. "Nothing!"

"Sure it is, that's my t-shirt! I was looking for that," John said with a grin, tugging at the cotton fabric.

With a growl of frustration, Sherlock yanked the shirt off the pillow and threw it onto John's wet stomach, then clasped the pillow in his arms and buried his bright red face in it. It was simply too embarrassing that John had found out not only who was responsible for the t-shirt's disappearance, but also what he'd used it for.

"Why … did you take it?" John asked as he mopped up the puddles of semen. But Sherlock still hadn't answered by the time he was finished and had dropped the soiled cloth off the bed again. John sat up now too and lowered the pillow from in front of Sherlock's face to prompt him to look up, but Sherlock only dug his heels in and hid further behind the soft folds.

"You took it out of my duffle when I came back, didn't you? Because you... because it smelled like me?"

Sherlock nodded once. He was mortified to hear John let out an amused snort, and clutched the pillow harder. He was well aware of how childish and silly his behaviour was – both in taking the t-shirt and now; he didn't need an alpha laughing at him on top of it!

"That's actually … sweet," John said, nuzzling into Sherlock's tousled curls. "I also like the way you smell. A lot. You know how much it turns me on, and... calms me down too, when I'm not feeling good. I liked it from the very first time we met."

Sherlock cautiously lifted his head to meet John's gaze, only to glance off to the side again, ashamed. "It was a trick that Mycroft's omega told me about. I was supposed to take something that smelled like you to bed with me so that I … " _– wouldn't be so alone._ Sherlock's throat tightened.

John waited patiently, but Sherlock couldn't get the rest of the sentence out. How was he supposed to explain that he didn't understand what he was feeling, after he'd spent his whole life questioning the feelings of others? How was he supposed to admit that he was a hypocrite without losing the last shred of respect that John might still hold for him?

"I get what you're saying. It's... weird. We haven't actually known each other that long, and yet we've had this connection between us for a few years now. A connection that we... didn't want to deal with before... or weren't equipped to. But..."

"But?" Sherlock asked, giving John a dubious look.

John shrugged one shoulder. "The connection's much more intense... and goes much deeper than we thought at first. And it's going to be with us for the rest of our lives."

"What's your point?"

John sighed, visibly struggling to find the right words. "I think... we should give it a go. We should try to make the best of the situation."

"The best? You mean share heats?" Sherlock asked irritably, frowning.

"I'd be lying if I said that would be a bad thing: But it's not actually what I meant. No, I was talking about our... about _your_ original plan. For your independence. Freedom. Even though we seem to have come to the conclusion that it's... not all quite that simple... we can still put it into action. Just not... apart."

Sherlock snorted his disapproval. But he knew John was right. They had enough experience by now for them both to know it. Leading separate lives was painful, almost unendurable, no matter whether they had feelings for one another or not.

_It's our biology._

"What do you suggest? That we go on as we have done the past few months and continue throttling each other whenever we're not in heat?" Sherlock scoffed.

"Are you serious? No! That's exactly what I don't want. It's stressful and doesn't do either of us any good to be constantly at each other's throat. But if we could find a way to get along better..."

"You're talking about that self-help book again, aren't you?" Sherlock raised one eyebrow challengingly, and saw John nod.

"Yeah, the title's total faff but we've already done one of the exercises, and... I don't know, I felt like we've been more... understanding toward each other since then."

The heavy sigh that burst forth from Sherlock's chest was deafening. "All right, fine. We can have a closer look at the questions and exercises, and decide whether we think it's useful for us or not. But not right now." Sherlock grunted and rolled back onto the bed, sliding in closer with his back facing John. As soon as John had lain back down too, Sherlock scooted in until they were touching and spread the blanket over them both.

When John then draped one arm over Sherlock's waist, he not only allowed it, he squeezed it gently and caressed John's skin.

** _One year and eleven months earlier_ **

Following his last visit, Sherlock only went to Wiggins one more time to procure Seven. Some desperate, naïve part of him had hoped that the sex part wouldn't happen again, and that they could return to their original agreement. But Wiggins seized the opportunity upon Sherlock's reappearance to force himself on Sherlock again.

Sherlock fought back, landing a punch and breaking Wiggins' nose. Blood spattered his fist and his shirt with red. Pumped full of adrenaline and fear, Sherlock grabbed the only two vials of Seven Wiggins had in his refrigerator with shaking hands and fled the scene before the dealer could collect himself enough to stop him.

Once back at home, Sherlock barricaded the doors and windows, frantically scrubbed the blood off his hands, and stuffed the stained shirt in the dustbin. Still trembling with fury and panic, he collapsed onto the sofa and buried his face in his hands. He focused on his breathing until he'd calmed down, but the underlying fear wouldn't go away. He took the slim vials out of his trouser pocket and examined them with a critical eye.

The content was as clear as water, pristine and innocuous. However, Sherlock knew that the appearance was deceiving. After all, the liquid contained a mixture of alpha pheromones and other chemicals that were invisible to the eye. Arriving at a decision, Sherlock reached for one of his last disposable needles and drew about half of the contents of the first vial into the syringe. He then rolled up his left sleeve and examined the crook of his elbow. The last puncture marks glared at him in an angry red. Another injection would hurt much more than usual.

Instead, he chose a vein on his wrist right below his thumb, and gritting his teeth, painfully worked the needle underneath the sensitive skin. His eyes filled with tears and the grinding of his teeth was torture on his eardrums. As soon as it was in, he squeezed down on the plunger then yanked the needle quickly back out. He pressed a clean tissue on top of the injection spot and went into the kitchen, where he took a cooling gel pack out of the icebox and held it to his wrist to ease the pain.

The relief that Seven normally provided took longer to set in each time. After all the injections over the past few weeks and months, his body had acclimatised to the dosage and metabolised it quicker. At the same time, John seemed to be pursuing his latest relationship with more fervour, meaning that Sherlock felt him more vividly and with greater frequency.

Fear constricted Sherlock's throat when he looked at the half-used vial on the coffee table. If he paced himself with it and allowed a little of John to seep through, he might be able to make it last for two weeks. That wasn't much time to find a new dealer...

*

It turned out to be Lestrade of all people who unwittingly pointed Sherlock in the direction of a new supplier. Ever since the break with Mycroft, Sherlock hadn't been spending much time at the Yard; for one thing, he didn't want to take the chance of Lestrade noticing he was using, but he also didn't want too much information about him to be funnelled to Mycroft.

After the incident in Camden, Sherlock was never called in for cases that had anything to do with drugs. Nonetheless, Sherlock kept his eyes and ears open, and took note of any names that were dropped in communications between the drug and homicide squads. Most of them were dealers who had already been tracked down and sentenced, or were about to be arrested.

But then there was Sebastian: a dealer who kept slipping through the fingers of the narcotics division. He was clever and knew how to lay false trails so that he could be long gone before any police showed up at his transfer points. The name he went by was common enough to help conceal his identity. Sebastian was so good at what he did that he even recognised officers working undercover for the Yard, posing as customers in good faith, and was able to evade them.

Despite all of that, Sherlock managed to get in touch with Sebastian through his old contacts. Although he wasn't entirely able to convince Sebastian that he was harmless, the man still sold him the drug he wanted. They agreed on a drop point for Sherlock to leave the payment. He later received a message where he could pick up his "order."

Sherlock was all in favour of this method of communication, as it meant he wouldn't risk another incident like with Wiggins.

Sebastian's concoction was good; it was potent and long-lasting, although not as pure as Wiggins' blend. It was still worth the money, in Sherlock's opinion.

After concluding several transactions with Sebastian within the space of three weeks, Sherlock received a message from him as usual with an address for pickup, sent from a burner number. This time, however, there was another line of text underneath that had Sherlock doing a double take.

_Ease up a bit, Shez. You're taking too much._

Sherlock snorted disparagingly when he read the short message, and tapped in his reply to the number.

_Fuck you. It's none of your business._

A few moments later, another message arrived on Sherlock's phone.

_The number you have reached is no longer in service._

*

It didn't stop.

John's presence in his body, the shadow of the alpha in his flat, the ebb and flow of _feelings_ that weren't directed at him. Feelings that increased in depth every day, forming the basis for a life together and threatening to drown him.

_A life without me..._

Sherlock's veins were on fire. The numerous injection sites were red and inflamed, the veins beneath his skin scarred and hardened. He'd tried so many different sites – the backs of his hands, his forearms, his feet – gritting his teeth against the pain when the needles dug deeper, motivated solely by the relief that would follow shortly thereafter.

He had no choice. Seven was the only thing preventing him from going completely mad, clawing his nails into his own skin, through muscle and sinew until he got down to the bones, to break them.

He was empty, starving, and at the end of his reserves. Yet at the same time full, absolutely brimming with emotions that were directed at another person altogether. Ebb and flow.

How was it possible? How was it possible to feel so much for someone? To want to spend your life with that person, to be joined together like two halves of the same body? A single organism, with one circulatory system and one heartbeat? How was it possible that only one half felt the pain of separation, wilting a little more each day, while the other flourished – unknowing?

Sherlock thought of his mother, of her friendly face, her pale blue eyes, her gentle smile. Of her curly brown hair with ringlets at her temples that she always tried to tuck behind her left ear with her delicate fingers. He remembered her scent, like sweet magnolia and fragrant oak, bitter cocoa and soft wool. He remembered the weight and warmth of her hand on his small, thin back; the way it almost completely covered him, protective and caring. The song she had always sung to him – he'd forgotten the words long ago, but the melody had seeped into his pores and become a part of him.

She hadn't sung any more when his father fell ill. She hadn't smiled, only cried and begged for her alpha to be spared.

It had seemed like years to Sherlock, during which he'd stood in the doorway of his parents' bedroom and watched his mother's figure bent over the bed, listening to her sobs and cries while wishing for nothing more than to be comforted himself.

It wasn't until later that he found out his father's death throes hadn't lasted longer than three days. He had been ill for many years already, growing slowly weaker. There was no cure. It had been his last wish not to die in a hospital, but to spend his final moments surrounded by his family.

Everything that followed had been even worse. His mother's rapid decline had set off panic and confusion in Sherlock. Didn't she love her children as much as her alpha? Couldn't she muster the strength to live for him and Mycroft?

_Was Sherlock's love not enough?_

Sucking air in between his teeth, Sherlock plunged the needle into his lower arm, squeezed the plunger down, and then withdrew it. A single drop of blood welled up out of the injection site, catching the light that fell through the gap in the curtains, and rolled down his arms as if trying to spread the light there.

The butterflies in his stomach, the pain in his limbs and the throbbing in his head started to fade. As if packed in cotton wool, his mind wandered to his quiet place, to the lake where nothing and no one existed other than him. He floated cross-legged above the mirror-like surface of the water, his eyes closed and his breathing calm. He was suffused with a sense of serenity. A feeling that had become familiar and absolutely vital.

When he heard something gurgling, he opened his eyes and looked down. The usually crystal-clear water was clouded with red and black eddies. The roiling increased until the entire lake was bubbling and steaming.

_No, no, no!_

Sherlock lost his balance and fell toward the water. His arms and legs flailed helplessly in the air, reaching for something to hold onto, something to stop his descent. But there was nothing but empty space. He hit the boiling water face-first. Heat slammed into his head and liquid lead streamed into his veins. His ribcage and his lungs were compressed, and what air remained in them escaped as if from a hissing kettle.

Nausea swirled upward inside him as his stomach tied itself into knots and a searing pain shot through his limbs. He felt himself retch; felt his mouth blocked off; felt that he couldn't breathe. He instinctively turned onto his side, coughing and gasping. He spit blood and gall over the side of the sofa, the stench of vomit in his nose. He struggled to breathe, only to be shaken by a renewed bout of cramps and coughing. He doubled over from the pain, which only released him after several never-ending seconds.

With no energy left, he rolled onto his back and wiped the sweat off his face. Black spots danced before his tear-filled eyes and his heart raced much too fast. He started to panic. He looked around for his mobile but couldn't spot it. It must still be in his coat. He tried to push himself up, to make it the couple of metres to the door to call for help, but couldn't do it.

His legs gave out as soon as he stood up. It felt as if his bones had dissolved into the jelly-like substance of his muscles, and he'd lost any strength he might have had. He tripped over the low coffee table, banging his shin on the edge. His hands flew out automatically to cushion his fall, but a stabbing pain flashed through his body. He lay on the carpet, having hit rock bottom, and tried to order his thoughts and take stock. But his brain refused to allow so much as a single lucid thought. The only things he was aware of were pain, his rattling breaths, and nausea.

He was seized by another fit of cramps just moments later. He whimpered, writhing on the floor until it had passed. He could barely open his eyes in the aftermath. The looming darkness was inexorably encroaching. His back broke out in goosebumps, and one single sobering thought emerged to the forefront:

_I'm dying._

He tried to swallow; tried to push away the fear. Tried to grasp hold of anything at all. His body no longer obeyed him. He sank further and further into unconsciousness until everything around him had been swallowed up by a penetrating stillness, and slowly began to fade.

_John, I'm sorry I didn't..._

*

Sherlock awoke several days later in hospital. He looked around, dazed and confused, unable to make sense of what had happened to him. Stinging sensations zapped down his nerves with so much as the slightest movement. A variety of tubes were connected to his body at several points, an oxygen mask covered his mouth and nose, and a pulse oximeter was attached to his right index finger. His left wrist was bandaged, and a dull pain cleaved his thorax.

He was alone.

Tears gathered in his eyes. His vision blurred until the first few drops spilled over the ends of his lashes and ran down the sides of his face. He sniffled inelegantly into the mask and took several stuttering breaths.

He was alive... but he was alone.

*

The first person to visit Sherlock at the hospital wasn't a member of the family on whom he'd turned his back, but Lestrade. The detective inspector glowered as he entered the private room Sherlock had been wheeled into after being unhooked from the machines and taken out of ICU.

Sherlock was glad to see the alpha – to see anyone at all who cared whether he lived or died – and showed it with a timid smile. Lestrade didn't return the smile; instead, he frowned, pulled up a chair, and sat down. He rested his elbows on his knees and ran both of his hands across his stubbly chin without meeting Sherlock's eye.

The longer he waited for Sherlock to speak, the more recalcitrant the latter felt. Didn't he deserve even a modicum of sympathy? After everything he'd been through?

"Well," he said eventually, "that seems to have turned out all right."

The glare from Lestrade's brown eyes made Sherlock's blood run cold.

"I swear, Sherlock, one more quip like that and I'll make sure you never get out of here!" the alpha threatened gruffly.

"What the hell are you doing here anyway?" Sherlock parried, furious.

"The hospital informed Mycroft that you were awake. He doesn't want to see you. Not yet at any rate. Anthea's also deeply hurt that you were so cavalier with your health."

Sherlock snorted derisively.

"He's directed the hospital staff to keep you here as long as possible. In the meantime, he's looking for an appropriate facility where you're to live for the time being."

"What?!" Sherlock gaped at Lestrade in disbelief, bunching the sheets in his fists.

"You heard me. You're probably wondering what happened after you lost consciousness," Lestrade said and straightened his back to look Sherlock directly in the eye. "We found you just in time. Mycroft rang for an ambulance and I did CPR to try and revive you. Broke your sternum doing it, sorry about that..."

"Oh..." Sherlock unconsciously touched the bandage wrapped around his chest underneath the hospital gown.

"I panicked and used too much force. But you were so pale, and..." Lestrade buried his face in his hands and let out a heavy sigh. "I couldn't let you die."

"Why not?" Sherlock asked in a monotone. He stared down at his hands, unable to believe that he had actually asked the question.

As expected, Lestrade inhaled sharply with a combination of indignation and resignation. "It's true then? It wasn't an accident?"

"I didn't plan to kill myself!" Sherlock snapped. "I just wanted – It just happened, all right? I made an … error in calculation."

"Why are you taking that stuff anyway? Your alpha isn't anywhere near here. Or... is that the problem?" Lestrade pushed.

Sherlock bit his bottom lip and shook his head hard. He swallowed over the lump in his throat and struggled against the undesired emotions that were bubbling up inside him, slowly but surely.

"I'm sorry... It's none of my business," Lestrade said and lifted his hands in an appeasing gesture. "I'm really only here to check in on you and tell you this: see this as an opportunity and go to the facility Mycroft picks out as soon as possible. With the amount of Seven that was found in your possession, you'd be looking at several years in prison otherwise. Not even Mycroft could get you out of that. Understand?"

Sherlock nodded mutely and wrung his folded hands. He heard Lestrade stand up and go to the door. When he reached for the handle, Sherlock spoke again: "Will you tell them… I'm sorry… please?"

Lestrade turned to face Sherlock once more; one corner of his mouth twitched indulgently.

"I think you can tell them yourself soon enough."

+++

tbc


	17. Chapter 17

** _One year and five months earlier_ **

John regarded the man in the mirror unhappily. He had dark circles under his eyes, his hair was dull, and his chin was covered with the results of a week without shaving. He had no idea when the last time was that those grim lips had smiled. The bags underneath his eyes made his face look puffy, although he'd lost at least four kilos in the past few months. He'd let himself go.

He scratched the stubble on his cheek with his thumbnail and tossed his razor back into his shaving kit, unused. Beards weren't exactly a welcome sight in his unit, but John didn't care one whit. They could go ahead and discipline him if they didn't like the way he looked. Didn't matter one way or the other.

Aside from that, he thought the Major had other things to worry about at the moment. During his last furlough, James Sholto had been involved in a fatal car crash that killed his omega and left him disfigured but alive.

John couldn't understand why the officer had returned at all, after an incident like that. And yet he had resumed his post less than half a year after the terrible accident, and in doing so had ended up rubbing John's nose daily and in a particularly graphic manner in a version of his own fate which he had only narrowly escaped.

The horrific scars on James's face, his paralysed arm, and his sad eyes were a grotesque reflection of the state of John's soul, showing him – in the form of a living, breathing warning sign – what it meant for an alpha to lose their omega. John knew that his thoughts were unfair and inappropriate: after all, he hadn't lost Sherlock, even though it had looked like it for a brief while. No, he'd never had Sherlock in the first place.

He wanted to offer James comfort both as the camp physician and also as a friend. But he simply couldn't bring himself to approach his erstwhile mentor. It hurt far too much to see how broken the formerly so unassailable alpha now was. At the same time, it scared him how quickly a storybook relationship like that of James and his omega – which John had secretly always admired – could come to such an abrupt end.

It wasn't even as if the powerful alpha of the pair had died in the line of duty. No, a blow-out on the motorway had killed his omega instead, transforming James Sholto into a grief-stricken figure. John couldn't say what strings the alpha had pulled to be allowed to return to the front, or whether he might even be driven by a secret death wish. John could empathise with the latter only too well.

Now, instead of being grateful that fate had been merciful to him, John was confronted every day with what might have become of him if Sherlock had actually died. The thought of that terrible night still made John feel sick to his stomach and caused a throbbing phantom pain in his chest. At the same time, the broken figure of James Sholto acted like a warning beacon, ensuring that John redoubled his efforts to rein in the emotions that had been awakened in him, and not get even more involved. Not in anything concerning Sherlock Holmes, nor any other interpersonal relations. He'd had enough of all that. Something in him had cracked. Something he couldn't put back together. Or didn't want to.

John let the days pass by listlessly. He took care of patients on auto-pilot but cordoned himself off from their fates. He didn't seek out the company of his alpha compatriots, much less any beta soldiers. Just the opposite: any attempt by the members of his unit to include John on a friendly basis or lend a sympathetic ear was met with a brusque rebuttal. He didn't have any more flings and ignored any and all attempts at flirting until such advances eventually ceased entirely. He didn't write any letters back home: not to his parents, not to Harry, and certainly not to the address in Kensington. The partnership with Mary Morstan was erased from his memory. He should have known their relationship was doomed from the start.

His grumpy, withdrawn mood meant there was little of John's formerly sunny disposition left. Instead, a deep sense of melancholy had settled over him, which he numbed more and more frequently with alcohol.

Ever since Bill had left Afghanistan to be at Cilia's side for the birth of their child and spend the first few weeks together as a little family, John had been left completely to his own devices. Not that he was particularly unhappy about that. Bill's concerned looks, constant questions about his wellbeing, and permanent running off at the mouth about her omega turned John off and gave him a headache. He was downright relieved when Bill took off and he was finally left to wallow in silence.

Some nights when his whirling mind prevented sleep from coming despite his exhaustion, John snuck out. He would sit down in the sand on the edge of the camp where the sentries rarely patrolled and stare up at the sky. The infinite breadth of the firmament with its countless stars, which he never would have been able to see in such plenitude back in London, filled him with a sense of humility. At the same time, they fed his dark thoughts, the shadows and worries that lurked inside him.

Whether Afghanistan or England, alpha or omega: he was small and helpless down here. Unimportant. Unloved. Unwanted by his other half.

John had buried the quiet hope – no, desire – of ever establishing a genuine relationship with Sherlock after that fateful night. The thought of a soul bond scared him more than he wanted to admit. And so he did everything he could to banish the omega from his thoughts. He'd torn up the calling card with Mycroft's number long ago... even if the digits were irrevocably burned into his memory.

The question of whether Sherlock was observing the same stars back home and thinking of John from time to time got drowned in strong whiskey until the twinkling little lights above him blurred into an off-white veil.

*

Several weeks later, John was sitting in a little café sipping a glass of hot tea. He was trying to filter out Bill's chatter from amidst the noise of the other guests at the neighbouring tables and the hectic market sounds around them. Even if he was only listening with half an ear to her anecdotes about Cilia and the baby. Everything was too loud, too warm, too crowded. And he had little to no interest in what milestones the young Murray offspring had achieved, and how far ahead he was of the other children in his age group.

Even as he nodded here and there and tried to signal through affirming vocalisations that he was following the conversation, John cursed himself inwardly. After weeks of self-imposed isolation, he'd been this close to developing a case of cabin fever. Now, however, he regretted his decision to accompany Bill to the nearby weekly market, and longed for the privacy of his favourite spot in the camp. He was simply not used to focusing his attention on someone or something other than the swirling eddy of thoughts in his brain.

" – and that's why we decided on you. Please say yes!" Bill ended her monologue.

_Decided on you... say yes!_

_Damn it!_

John had no idea what Bill was talking about. Hopefully the Murrays didn't want to take advantage of him as a sperm donor again!

"I... er..." he said lamely, scratching the back of his head. "Look, after what happened last time I don't think it's a good idea."

"John!" Bill leaned forward in her chair and reached out as if to place her hand on John's forearm. Instead, she picked up her glass of tea at the last moment, without drinking anything. "It's exactly because of what happened and your reaction that we can't think of anyone more suited. You were so sensible and strong. You treat omegas with more respect than I've ever seen from other alphas. In spite of all the difficulties and setbacks you've faced, your family background, and the … the _adverse situation_ with your omega... well... You know I'm not good with words... What I want to say is, you're someone who can show Henry how to become an exceptional man and alpha."

"What?"

"Plus – Henry _John_ Murray. That's his full name. So you see, you can't say no!"

"What the hell are you talking about now?" John asked, now utterly flummoxed.

"_That's_ why we want you to be his godfather."

"Godfather?"

"Of course. What did you think?" Bill set her glass down on the saucer and barked out a disbelieving laugh. "Have you even been listening to me?"

"Erm... apparently not."

Shaking her head, Bill finished her tea and stood up. She gave John an indulgent smile, as if she hadn't expected any other response, and gave him an encouraging clap on the shoulder. "Just think about it, okay? It wouldn't just be an honour for us, it might also be a really good thing for you. Now come on, let's have a look at the market. If I don't get Cilia some of her favourite char masala, she'll make my life a living hell."

Resigning himself to his fate, John likewise drained his glass and got up to follow Bill through the dense crowd.

Bill stopped at a stall where piles of various spices towered over them. She spoke in broken Pashto to the shopkeeper, and had several little bags filled with various powders and herbs.

In the meantime, John wandered onward, turning the unusual request over in his head. He was beyond astonished that the Murrays had selected him of all people as the godfather for little Henry. He wouldn't have thought he was that important to Bill, nor that she held him in such high regard. John wasn't especially religious, and had little interest in children. And yet both the offer and Bill's speech touched him. 

John stopped at a stall, and the shopkeeper gave him a friendly smile. The older beta gave him a pensive look, then picked up a tea blend which she held out, prompting him to take it. He accepted the small container and sniffed it, still lost in his own thoughts. The scent of honey and wildflowers hit his nose in a rush. Memories of London, summer rain, and dark curly hair had him closing his eyes for a wistful moment.

What he wouldn't give if Sherlock –

A shot tore through the rumble of the marketplace, making John stagger. Loud shouts rang in his ears as he blinked dazedly down at the box of tea. It slipped out of his hand as if in slow motion and fell into the dirt.

"John!" he heard Bill scream.

_John!_ sounded another panicked voice that wasn't Bill's.

A searing pain exploded in his left shoulder. He automatically grabbed for it. Something warm and wet soaked his fingers. Curiously, he regarded the red colour that dripped off his hand when he pulled it back. He blinked up at the blue and white sky through a veil of crimson, watching the clouds dance. He felt the hard earth beneath him and wondered if it might rain. Why was the sky right above him all of a sudden? Why was he looking directly up into it?

Oh. _Oh..._

_John! John!_

Something pressed down on his shoulder with great force, but he didn't feel any pain. He didn't feel anything. Nothing but the tear that snuck out of the corner of one eye and ran slowly down his temple.

Was this the end? Was Sherlock experiencing what John had gone through all those months ago?

_Sherlock!_

He wanted to reach out and touch brunette curls. To smell wild honey one last time.

_Dear God, please let me live..._

** _Present day_ **

John was pleasantly surprised that Sherlock had agreed to his suggestion that they share a shower. He would have preferred a hot bath together, but he didn't want to push his luck with a request like that. Besides, it was late already, and they were both completely knackered.

The bright artificial light in the bathroom hurt John's tired eyes, so he turned off the overhead lamp and switched on the smaller lamp over the mirror instead. John regarded his omega reverently in the soft semi-darkness. Sherlock was already in the shower, letting the water bead down his slender body.

"Are you coming? Or are you just going to stand there and stare? Perv." The accompanying laugh was taunting. On any other day, his question would have been posed in an acidic tone, but today there was no trace of venom in his voice. The teasing nature was clear, such that John merely snorted and climbed into the tub with Sherlock.

He automatically reached for the nearby sponge, poured some of Sherlock's expensive shower gel onto it, and started to lather up his omega. He tenderly washed Sherlock's upper arms and chest, then down to his genitals, enjoying Sherlock's happy sighs.

"Turn around," John said quietly, as if not wanting to disturb the intimate mood in the twilit space.

He stretched up to deposit a kiss on the mark on Sherlock's shoulder, and continued working on his back. John was pleased to hear the gulping sound that Sherlock made when John spread his buttocks and ran the sponge between them. He gently wiped away any remaining omega essence and semen from Sherlock's opening that he hadn't caught with his tongue. An insistent tightening curled through his groin at the memory of their previous lovemaking. He let one hand wander around to the front so he could clasp Sherlock's cock and balls, and gently massage them.

The omega's cock was only slightly aroused at first, but perked up under the tender ministrations of John's fingers as he pulled back the foreskin and cleaned the glans. The sponge fell out of John's other hand and landed on the floor of the tub with a wet _plop_. Sherlock inhaled sharply when John replaced the lost sponge with his thumb and circled his sphincter with it.

Standing half to the side behind Sherlock, John rubbed his own semi-hard cock against Sherlock's hip as Sherlock unconsciously rocked his pelvis back and forth between John's hands. With every swing forward, he pushed into John's fist. And every jerk back ensured that John's thumb slipped inside the omega's hole.

"John..." Sherlock panted, pressing his cheek against the cool tiles with his hands splayed flat on either side of his head.

"That's it... yes, Sherlock. Take what you need."

Breathless, John watched Sherlock's blissful expressions in the half-light. His eyes closed, his sensual bottom lip tucked in between his teeth. John briefly regretted the insufficient illumination, wanting more light so that he could see more, more, _more_ of his omega.

_You're breathtaking... incredible... gorgeous... I... I..._

John didn't say any of that out loud. Instead, he shifted his position slightly so that he could kiss his way down Sherlock's back. He greedily licked away the droplets beading across Sherlock's quivering body, and scraped the wet skin with his teeth. He forcefully thrust aside the faintly reproachful reminder that they weren't in the midst of a heat surge at the moment, preferring to listen to Sherlock's increasingly loud moans.

John replaced his thumb with his index and middle finger, slowly squeezing them past Sherlock's loosened ring of muscle. He gently pushed down on the slight swell of Sherlock's prostate, increasing the speed of his pumping motions with his fist at the same time. He stroked Sherlock's cock again and again, rubbed the head and mercilessly stimulated the bundle of nerves inside Sherlock until he cried out what sounded like a sob and John felt hot semen spurting all over his fingers.

The omega only took a few moments to gasp open-mouthed for air before turning his attention to John.

"Your turn!"

Sherlock whirled around, nearly slipping on the wet bottom of the tub in his eagerness, and plastered the entire length of his body up against his alpha. He lowered his enticing mouth onto John's narrow lips and kissed him deeply.

"In a minute..." John laughed with both relief and arousal. "Let's get out of here first. It's too slippery, and the water's getting cold."

It was true. The boiler had used up all of the hot water, leaving only lukewarm water to come out of the showerhead, and even that was cooling rapidly. John quickly untangled himself from Sherlock, lathered himself up as fast as he could, and rinsed off. Then he got out of the tub and reached for a towel to dry himself off peremptorily. He then took another towel off the rack, which he held up for Sherlock, who was squeezing the last few drops of water out of his hair and turning off the shower. When Sherlock put out a hand to take the towel, John shook his head.

"Let me do it," he said, and began to dry Sherlock's torso and legs with utmost focus.

"I can do that myself..." Sherlock grumbled with embarrassment, but let his alpha continue.

"I know," John replied without stopping what he was doing. Instead, he held out one hand to assist Sherlock as he got out of the tub. After Sherlock had sat down on the edge, John said, "But I have a need to take care of you."

Sherlock hummed his acquiescence as John crouched down in front of him and gave him a smile that was also a request. He held his hand out with a prompting motion, waiting until Sherlock extended his arm so that John could gently dry it with the towel. When he was done, he ran his bare hand over it as if to check his handiwork. In the light from the medicine cabinet, John thought he caught sight of a shiny blemish in the crook of Sherlock's arm. Puzzled, he ran his thumb over it and tightened his grip on Sherlock's wrist when he started to pull back.

John frowned thoughtfully as he dried Sherlock's other arm and found similar marks there. Although he couldn't see them properly in the semi-darkness of the bathroom, the silvery scars stood out clearly against the skin. When John traced a mark in the shape of a half-moon on his left arm, Sherlock inhaled sharply and jerked his arm back as if the touch had burnt him.

"Don't..."

"Sherlock, what is that?" John asked, although he already suspected what the answer was.

"I don't want to talk about it..." Sherlock's voice was a barely audible whisper with none of its usual edge. And yet a chill crawled up John's spine, making him shiver. He wanted to pull Sherlock into an embrace, and at the same time he wanted to shake him. In the end, he simply let him go when the omega stood up and pushed his way past.

He resisted the impulse to grab hold of Sherlock and prevent him from going anywhere. Instead, he squeezed his hand into a fist and followed Sherlock into the bedroom, where he leaned against the doorframe and watched the omega go to the window and gaze out. John could clearly read the despair, shame, and regret, but also the defiant attitude in both Sherlock's body language and the composition of his scent. John couldn't stand to see his omega so upset. And so he swept his own feelings aside and cautiously approached Sherlock, worried he might scare him away like a wounded animal that felt threatened.

John slowly wrapped his arms around Sherlock's middle and drew the omega up against his chest. He dropped feather-light kisses on the oval scar that he was responsible for.

"Do the scars come from your experiments?"

Sherlock shook his head slightly.

"Then what?"

"You know what they are," Sherlock rasped, his voice barely audible.

"Bloody hell!" John hastily pulled away from Sherlock, grasped his upper arms, and forced him to turn around so that he could look his omega in the eye. "Why? Why would you do something like that to yourself?"

Sherlock lowered his eyes in shame. "You can't understand it. I – "

"What can't I understand? That my omega's a bloody junkie?"

"I'm not a junkie!" Sherlock growled, glaring angrily at John. The fire had returned to his eyes. "I'm clean and I haven't taken anything for a long time. And I'm not going to take anything else again. But I will not allow you to pass judgment on me, John Watson. Because you have no idea what you're talking about."

Sherlock nodded at his left arm. "Those scars are my reminder of how quickly life – how I – that – " He cut himself off and tried to shake off John's grip. But John only held on more firmly and hugged the omega so hard it hurt.

_How quickly life can end?_ Had he wanted to end the sentence that way? Was Sherlock talking about the moment when John had almost lost his omega? To an overdose? All of a sudden, all the suppressed memories of that horrible night rushed in, making John gasp under his breath.

"John?" Sherlock queried in surprise, and returned the embrace hesitantly.

"You're a bloody idiot!" John sighed and extricated himself from the other man. He rubbed his damp eyes, placed his hands on either side of Sherlock's face, and pressed a firm kiss onto his lips. "Never do that to me again!"

"Promise," Sherlock whispered against his mouth.

*

They hadn't spoken much more, falling asleep entwined soon after. Both too exhausted, physically and emotionally, to stay awake any longer. John was therefore quite surprised when he woke in the middle of the night.

It was pitch black in the bedroom, and Sherlock was no longer lying in his arms. Instead, he'd rolled over onto his stomach and was frotting the mattress and keening. The room was filled with Sherlock's delicious scent and his faint whimpers.

"Sherlock?" John sat up and rested one hand on the omega's sweaty back. "Is everything all right?"

"Heat... surge..." the omega panted desperately.

"Why didn't you wake me then?" John asked, nonplussed, and pushed the covers off. He reached between his legs and grasped his cock, which had already automatically reacted to the omega and lay half hard on his stomach.

"Thought... thought you were still... _hnngg..._ cross with me..."

"You're such an idiot sometimes," John growled, albeit without any real harshness in his voice. Still groggy, he scooted up onto his knees and patted one of Sherlock's thighs. Maybe his arse cheek, John couldn't really make it out in the darkness. "Let me get in there. Move your legs... yeah, like that..."

With one hand, John spread Sherlock's arse cheeks while steadying his now completely stiff cock with the other. He wasn't even really surprised anymore at the speed with which his body reacted to his omega. Instead, he enjoyed the arousal that flashed like lightning through his body. Testing the waters, he slid the head of his cock along Sherlock's damp crack, hissing when he felt the moisture that had already collected.

"God, you're so wet again already," he said in a low, reverent voice. "How long have you been lying here trying to take care of yourself, hm?"

"Dunno... not long... I... _ah_..."

"Did you come already?"

He felt more than saw Sherlock shake his head no. Still, he wanted to hear it. He slowly pushed his plump cockhead through the tight sphincter muscle before freezing in place.

"Say it. Did you come… without me?"

The rustling of the smooth fabric pillow cover became louder. "No. No... _no_... didn't. Couldn't... need you... John... _please... ahhh_..." Sherlock rasped and pushed back toward John. He let out a grateful sigh as John slowly but surely pushed inside him.

John himself had to bite down hard on his lip in order not to thrust much harder and rougher into Sherlock's tight body. But he was enjoying the close proximity to his omega too much for that.

He lay on top of Sherlock, letting him take his full weight. He brushed a few curls off the back of Sherlock's neck and tenderly suckled on the skin there. Then John began to rock his hips, slowly and deliberately. He drew back just a few millimetres, then moved back inside just as gently. In this manner, he established a leisurely pace that he could keep up ad infinitum.

John interlaced his fingers with Sherlock's and slid them underneath the pillow above his head. He used his legs to push the omega's further apart, driving in and out of Sherlock with barely perceptible motions. The angle enabled John to stimulate Sherlock's prostate with every thrust. The omega had curled his feet around John's calves to stabilise himself, and caressed John's skin with his toes.

In the darkness, every sound – the sighs, the slick sliding, the rustling sheets – sounded much more enhanced. Lulled into a kind of trance by the amazing scent of his omega, John wanted nothing more than to crawl all the way inside Sherlock. As if being so close that not even a piece of paper could fit between them wasn't enough. Something sugary sweet tugged at John's heartstrings when Sherlock whispered his name in an awe-filled tone and caressed the palm of John's hand with his thumb.

John wished that he would never have to shatter this cocoon of closeness and intimacy; he wanted to float on this wave of tender sensuality for all time: But his knot was starting to throb, slowly but surely. It wouldn't be long before it had swelled up all the way, binding the omega to his alpha.

As well suited as his position was for their lazy union, John would have liked to kiss Sherlock just then. He also wanted to hold his omega close, to lie on top of him and not have to turn onto their sides because he would become too heavy once they had climaxed. He reluctantly lifted himself up and retreated a little ways.

"Hm? John? What...?" Sherlock complained sleepily.

"Did you fall asleep?" John snorted, amused.

"No, it's just so... relaxing... so... nice..."

"For me too," John agreed. "We'll keep going in a sec. You just need to turn over, darl – Sherlock. Turn over, okay?"

Sherlock rolled onto his back and groped for John with insistent fingers. John immediately reappeared over the omega, and surged back inside his red-hot body in a single fluid motion. Sherlock wrapped his arms and legs around John as if he couldn't stand to have so much as a single millimetre of space between them.

John sighed and pressed his lips against Sherlock's, kissing him tenderly. His knot pulsed in time with his heartbeat, twitching insistently when Sherlock put his tongue into John's mouth.

"Do you know how good you feel? How incredible you are?" John murmured between their moist lips. "You're so special... unique... beautiful..."

"John..."

"I want you so much... always..."

John caressed every inch of skin that he could reach; cheekbones, tousled hair, shoulders, arms. He touched the scars over Sherlock's veins with his thumb. A swell of undefinable emotion ran through him as he held even tighter to his omega.

"Please... please, let's give it a go... promise me!" John panted as he pushed his knot inside Sherlock and an orgasm of bittersweet intensity crashed over him.

"Yes... yes... _yes_..." Sherlock moaned as he also reached his climax, and ejaculated between their bodies.

+++

tbc


	18. Chapter 18

** _Present day_ **

Heat and a cocoon of intimacy that had become indispensable filled the space between them. Perspiration cooled their overheated skin, silently evaporating amidst puffs of breath and two pairs of lips that found each other again and again, even in complete darkness.

Sherlock was brimming with feelings and deep, profound emotion, simply from the presence of his alpha and his knot, from the long-suppressed memories and new impressions; so much that he could barely breathe. He felt so cared for, and yet stripped bare, sucked dry and protected, wounded and perfectly complete, that it scared him.

He wanted to run off; to push John away and jump out of bed; to curl up in a corner somewhere and make himself small. His anxiety over all of these feelings welling up inside him was starting to scare him more than the emotions themselves. Rather than giving in to his initial impulse and fighting his way to freedom despite their connection, he nestled his head in closer against the crook of John's neck, wrapped both arms around his neck, and dug his fingers into the hot, sweaty skin there.

"I've got you..." John whispered.

Words that Sherlock had never spoken aloud burned on the tip of his tongue, scalding his throat, flowing like a river of lava through his lungs, only to extinguish with a hiss in his gut. He held back a sob with the last bit of strength he had, trying to rein in the traitorous quivers in his body, or at least to conceal them. However, John couldn't help but notice the fluttering of his diaphragm and his abdominal muscles.

He returned the embrace with equal intensity, kissing his way across Sherlock's cheek, eyelid, and forehead, only to smother a helpless sigh in his tousled curls.

"Everything okay?"

Sherlock swallowed hard when he heard the concern and consideration that had crept into John's voice over the last few days, shaking Sherlock's entire concept of the way the world worked through the implication of unforced warmth and understanding. Sherlock swallowed hard and nodded his head with a jerky motion.

"Yes," he croaked. He rubbed his face against John's stubbled cheek, relishing the burning sensation on his sensitive skin, and wiped away a tear that had beaded up in his right eye without his permission. He felt John's heart beating against his chest, requesting entrance, as well as the alpha's pulse further down below his splayed legs.

John had pushed his arms up underneath Sherlock's knees to take some of the weight off him, to keep him grounded and prevent him from flying apart.

_Please... please, let's give it a go... promise me!_

John's words still lay between them like a proposal. Like an olive branch and a declaration of war. Tossed between them at the pinnacle of their union like words from a dead language. Drunk on hormones, frivolous and playful.

Sherlock's vocal cords had decided to voice their agreement before his brain was able to lodge a protest. And in doing so had both praised the satisfying of his urges and drowned out all the debates of many years' standing – all without him having a say. Torn between fulfilling his wildest undreamt dreams and the ever-present mortal fear which the loss of such a delicate bond would entail, Sherlock sighed against John's lips and parted them with his tongue.

How long would it be before he lost his alpha's favour? How long before John realised that the pain of separation would be easier to bear than a life with Sherlock? How long before Sherlock would wither away as a consequence of his youthful blunder in entering into this bond?

"I'm sorry," John whispered as he continued to shower Sherlock with tender kisses. "This position isn't optimal. Am I too heavy?"

Sherlock shook his head and gulped down the last syllable from John's mouth as if he were starving. They'd never been as close as they were at that moment – and that thought alone was quite ridiculous, considering how many heat surges they had already shared. Would it ever become less intense? Or would it be one continual 'it can't possibly get any better than this'?

*

Sherlock awoke in John's arms several hours later. Sunlight fell through the curtains, creeping up their bare legs minute by minute. The bedcover had slipped off to one side, plunging fearlessly over the edge of the bed and preserved from disaster only by Sherlock's hip and an arm flung carelessly outward.

Sherlock's left leg nestled between John's thighs, up against his flaccid alpha cock. His face was buried somewhere in the pillow next to John's head. The smells of their bodies, sex, and omega essence hung heavy in the air around them.

Sherlock tried to prolong the moment of his awakening, to slow down the seconds ticking past purely with the power of his mind. He sighed softly and snuggled in closer to John's neck. With a sense of gratitude mixed with melancholy, he followed the path of John's fingers caressing his shoulder, so lightly that they barely brushed the fine hairs on his skin. He instinctively imitated the touch on John's waist, tracing lopsided figures with his thumb and pursing his lips to kiss his alpha's neck.

"Good morning..." John said, his voice rough with sleep.

Sherlock grunted back an acknowledgement, not quite ready to face the day yet. His heart skipped a beat when John brushed back his curls and deposited a fond kiss on his forehead.

"How are you feeling?"

"Good," Sherlock grumbled, only to shift back and forth restlessly a moment later. "I need the loo..."

John chuckled softly. "Go ahead then! We should get up anyway... and have breakfast. I could eat a horse," he said and pressed another kiss against Sherlock's temple.

Sherlock made a sound of agreement and rolled reluctantly out of bed. He would have liked to spend more time in the warm bed, but the chances were fairly high that they would be back soon enough. Making certain that John's eyes were glued to him, Sherlock walked around the bed, nude and without a lick of self-consciousness, and went to the door that led into the ensuite bathroom.

He relieved himself with a sigh, then shaved and got into the shower to wash off the dried traces of the night they had spent together. He secretly expected that John would join him any minute, as he had the night before. But that didn't happen. After he'd cleaned his teeth, he wanted to put on his dressing gown but couldn't find it anywhere.

He went into the kitchen, where he discovered that John was wearing the dressing gown and setting the table.

"Oh, sorry. I just grabbed something to cover up while you were in the shower so I could make breakfast. Here." He slid the blue garment off his shoulders and held it out to Sherlock with an inviting smile. "It's really comfy."

"Yes... it's the only thing I can bear to have on my skin during a heat," Sherlock replied as he admired John's naked body. His tongue darted out to moisten his lower lip, just before he caught John's gaze wandering over Sherlock's body in the same manner. Their eyes met a moment later, and Sherlock turned away, his face flushing.

"I should hop into the shower too. There's some toast already in the breadbasket under the tea towel. Eat something and drink the tea while I'm gone, yeah?" he said, jerking his chin in the direction of the pot on the table.

Sherlock nodded curtly, still holding the blue cloth in his hands. When John realised that, he took the dressing gown back and draped it over Sherlock's shoulders, smoothed down the lapels, and tied the ends of the belt together with a loose knot. He wrapped his fist around the loop, pulled Sherlock closer, and kissed him with a matter-of-factness that sent hot shivers skittering down Sherlock's spine. Then he stepped back.

"I'll be right back."

Sherlock watched his alpha until the bathroom door closed with a soft click and the water in the shower turned on. He swallowed down a sound filled with longing that was trying to escape his throat, and reached for the teacup that stood ready on the table.

*

Sherlock was a little surprised at how quietly the morning passed. The second day of his first heat had gone by in a similar manner. Feeling relaxed and in a state of equilibrium as long as John was nearby, he took advantage of the peace and quiet to hydrate and doze on the sofa in the sunlight that fell through the window.

John sat beside him wearing only a dressing gown, with Sherlock's calves on his lap and one hand resting on his foot while he held the self-help book for alpha-omega couples in his other hand and skimmed through it. Once in a while, he grunted as if agreeing with the contents, but Sherlock felt too relaxed to ask what passage he was reading.

"Have you ever heard of something called scenting?" John inquired at some point.

Sherlock opened one eye and squinted in John's direction. "Of course, didn't your parents ever – " Sherlock cut himself off when he remembered that John came from a family of betas and had learned the typical customs of alpha-omega society almost exclusively from hearsay. He pulled in his legs and sat up, suddenly completely awake and attentive.

"Has no one ever done it with you?"

John gave Sherlock a curious look and shook his head slightly. "I'm not even sure I understand what it means. It just says here that couples should accustom themselves to scenting on a regular basis."

Sherlock was acutely aware of his pulse beating faster – although he couldn't quite explain why. "Scenting is... something extremely personal and only occurs within a family unit. Parents usually initiate it when their children are small – but I presume that was never the case in your family."

John shook his head again. A frown line had developed between his eyebrows. "But if I understand correctly, you just sniff your family member's neck and … what's supposed to happen?"

"It's more like an affirmation of belonging. Parents and children have an overlap in their scent markers. The proximity and physical contact promote a … sense of cohesion. It's usually performed after any period of separation – no matter how long it was. For example, at the end of a workday, or... or if a family member is feeling anxious or ill... or in pain," Sherlock explained succinctly.

"Did your parents do it with you?"

Sherlock looked at John, only to promptly turn his face away again. He wrung his hands in his lap nervously.

"When I was very little, yes..." He cut himself off, feeling a lump forming in his throat. He swallowed several times, but it didn't help clear his throat. It was simply too difficult to tell John that his parents had died when he was barely five years old.

A warm hand settled on his thigh and squeezed it gently.

"So no scenting for a while then..." John summarised circumspectly. "Do you… want to try? With me?" When he saw Sherlock's dubious look, he quickly added: "The guide recommends doing it once a day. But we don't have to if that's too much for us. As far as I understand it, it's something we can and in fact should do outside of a heat as well. Because our bond – "

_– makes us family._

Sherlock heard the words hover in the air between them, even though John didn't say them out loud. Instead, he cleared his throat awkwardly.

"You could show me how to do it properly..."

"All right, fine. Stand up," Sherlock commanded him and rose from the sofa himself. John closed his book, laid it on the coffee table, and stood in front of Sherlock. He followed Sherlock's every movement like a hawk, waiting for some clue or instruction as to what was expected of him.

Sherlock licked his lips nervously. His gaze fell on the curve of John's neck and the shoulder hidden beneath the material of his dressing gown. John's scent was so familiar to him that he didn't need any affirmation of their common bond as such, but the act of scenting was more than just that. It comprised intimacy, family connectedness, and familiarity at the highest level, and was only shared with one's closest relations.

His heart beating like mad, Sherlock placed one hand on John's bicep, leaned down to him, and nuzzled his neck. His mouth and nose came into contact with the warm skin there, his chin brushing the terrycloth of the dressing gown. He blew air out of his lungs, banishing all other scents, then inhaled deeply.

John's composition of sunshine, sand, fire, and smoke, along with water, wood, and moss, combined starkly with his own well-known note of wildflower honey, summer rain, and nightshade. Heat flooded Sherlock's body, filling his cells. He nestled in closer to John, gently rubbing his face against the alpha's neck and cheek while his hands pulled the other man closer of their own accord.

He heard John inhale sharply, just before imitating Sherlock's actions and cuddling up to him, burying his face in the crook of Sherlock's neck and placing his hands on Sherlock's hips.

"I like this..." John said in a low voice, his eyes closed as he deposited a kiss on Sherlock's neck. "How long...?"

"Not _this_ long, generally," Sherlock responded lazily, unwilling to separate himself from his alpha. "This here... is... more."

He was well aware that he should distance himself from John right about now; after all, scenting usually didn't take more than a couple of seconds, but this right here... this was... _foreplay_ – the word flashed through Sherlock's mind unbidden.

His next heat surge hadn't begun yet. In other words, cosying up to his alpha like this could be deemed inappropriate. He was still embarrassed by the fact that he'd let himself get carried away in the shower yesterday and satisfied his obvious arousal, even though there had been no reason to do so, strictly speaking. After all, their last heat surge had taken place only a short while before.

But even now, Sherlock found himself under the influence of that same indescribable longing without it truly being part of the heat. It was almost as if it wasn't just his feelings that –

_Oh._

Could it be? Was it possible that he was experiencing not only what his own senses were telling him, but John's as well? Just as he had during the years they'd been apart? Except that those feelings back then hadn't been directed at him, but at....

Sherlock refused to allow himself to think about the betas and two omegas John had taken up with. The memory was too painful, and everything that went along with it was too upsetting.

But now... things were different now. John wanted him. He'd said it more than once, even if Sherlock wasn't quite sure yet how much was influenced by the heat and how much stemmed from genuine feelings.

Was it any different for him? Was all of this only because of the heat, or...?

Sherlock thought he knew the answer, but a speck of uncertainty remained. He slowly pulled away from John so that he could see him properly. Glassy-eyed and slightly flushed, John appeared to be a little out of it. He met Sherlock's gaze with a heart-melting smile that made Sherlock's stomach flip, then leaned forward to drop a kiss on Sherlock's chin, and another on the corner of his mouth.

Sherlock turned his head a little to return the kiss with an implicitness that surprised even him. Within the space of just a few hours, it had become so natural to kiss John that Sherlock couldn't fathom why he'd fought against it for so long. Touching John, caressing him, fondling him, stimulating him... doing all of the things that were a matter of course for most couples, and not feeling as if any of it were taking place against his express wishes: Sherlock couldn't quite wrap his head around it all.

And yet he wanted more.

_Please... please, let's give it a go... promise me!_

_Yes... yes!_

Sherlock deepened the kiss, stroking John's tongue with his and sighing unabashedly into the other man's mouth. He was relieved to discover that it didn't take more than that to motivate John to reciprocate. He placed one hand on Sherlock's back and the other on the nape of his neck, and sucked and nibbled on Sherlock's lips with equal enthusiasm, taking frantic breaths between each kiss.

"Sherlock..."

Sherlock felt the arousal inside him kick up to the next level immediately. He wanted to touch every millimetre of John, wanted to chivvy him over to the couch and climb on top of him, wanted to forge a connection with him – here and now – to show him how much –

"John," Sherlock gasped urgently between two breaths.

"Yes... bedroom?"

Sherlock shook his head and pushed John backwards until he lost his balance and had to sit down on the couch.

"What – ?"

"Shhh..." Sherlock said, steadying himself on John's thighs as he lowered himself to his knees. As he did so, he pressed John's legs apart, automatically parting the dressing gown all the way up to the belt.

The fragrance of the shower gel he'd used had mixed with John's own scent, wafting out to Sherlock in a titillating wave. He splayed his fingers on John's thighs and let his eyes wander across the exposed areas of skin, over the crinkly hair and half-hard erection that peeked out from beneath the terrycloth.

His own cock was already completely erect, creating an obscene bulge in the blue dressing gown. Sherlock let the garment slip off his shoulders with a soft rustle until it formed a pool of cloth on the ground behind him. He then reached for John's sash and untied it so that he could draw the two halves of John's dressing gown apart. He exhaled sharply as he watched the alpha's cock inflate before his eyes, as if it had a life of its own.

"Sherlock," John whispered again, although this time devoid of any intention to stop him. He gazed down at him expectantly, waiting to see what the next step would be that he decided on.

Sherlock leaned over to examine the texture of the skin and the structure veins that ran beneath it, with a combination of curiosity and lust. The glans was still largely concealed by the foreskin, but the tip that peeped out was already damp from the pre-ejaculate seeping out. Sherlock licked his lips, pressed the tip of his tongue firmly against his hard palate, and inhaled deeply. A frisson of pleasure rippled down his spine and a tingle of arousal set his nerves alight when the scent of _his_ alpha glutted his receptors.

"May I?" he asked, lifting his eyes in a gesture that could almost be called coquettish.

John had leaned back and thrown one arm up over his head. His gaze fixed on Sherlock's lips, his mouth hung partway open and his respiratory rate was just a little faster than normal. He almost seemed to be shocked at Sherlock's brazenness.

"Of course, whatever you want," he said in a thick voice, grasping his cock. He wrapped his hand around the base where the knot would eventually form and held it upright. With his loose fist, he pulled the foreskin up over the head, then retracted it on the downward stroke, laying the wet glans and the frenulum completely bare.

Without another moment's hesitation, Sherlock lunged forward and pressed a kiss to the reddened skin, tapping his tongue against it before withdrawing again. The alpha's fragrance exploded all over his taste buds, making his own cock twitch in lascivious anticipation. Still not certain how he was going to get the oversized alpha erection into his mouth, he cautiously licked around the rim of the head, then down the entire length to John's balls.

The whole time, he paid close attention to John's breathing and the quiet sounds he made, not yet daring to look up. His heart pumping hard, he pursed his lips around the head and tried to take in more, one bit at a time, all the while zealously sucking on the sensitive skin and rubbing the throbbing shaft with his right hand.

"Fuck!" John swore between clenched teeth, swivelling his hips in order to penetrate further inside Sherlock's mouth.

Sherlock jerked back suddenly when the plump head bumped into the back of his throat, causing tears to leap to his eyes. His gag reflex kicked in, and he shot an indignant look up at John; but the ashamed expression he found there, together with the desperation and almost palpable hunger in his eyes immediately quelled his rising pique.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to – "

"It's fine... Just don't, all right?" Sherlock grumbled and looked back down at the erection in his hand. His salivary glands immediately kicked in, and he had to swallow. "It's not all going to fit in my mouth; no way."

John made a frustrated sound, although it seemed more to stem from the interruption in stimulation. He grasped his cock and rubbed the head and frenulum.

"Here, focus on this bit," he said breathlessly, his eyes feverish.

Sherlock did as he was told, and started licking the head, the rim, and the sensitive furrow while John held his cock upright. He heard John inhale sharply, then let out a choppy breath; moan softly and curse. His reactions only served to goad Sherlock further, winding his arousal up tighter and tighter until he realised that he was unconsciously frotting the front of the couch in order to get some friction himself.

"Oh... _oh... incredible_... I can't believe you're... yeah, just like that. _Hnng,_ Sherlock... you're amazing..."

The muscles in Sherlock's groin tensed and moisture was collecting between his arse cheeks. His cock was so hard that it wouldn't take much to bring him to climax momentarily. But he didn't want to stop. He found that he enjoyed spoiling John in this manner, and feeling out his own boundaries at the same time.

"So sexy..." John sighed, dragging his thumb across Sherlock's stretched bottom lip.

Sherlock kept trying to cram more alpha cock into his mouth, only to pull back as soon as he'd reached his limit in order to feast his eyes on John's reaction. The heat and insistence in his groin was getting stronger by the second, until he felt as if he were going to explode. And yet he didn't let himself get distracted, continued licking and sucking while fisting his own cock to counteract the growing tension.

"Fuck, Sherlock... Your scent... you're driving me mad. I can smell how wet you are... Ah..."

"John!" Sherlock gasped as he reluctantly let go of John's erection. He wiped the spit off his chin and sat up. His arms and legs quivering, he inserted his knees to either side of John on the sofa and pushed up against his hot body, pressed his lips to John's and kissed him greedily.

John returned the embrace with equal urgency, wrapping both around Sherlock.

Sherlock lifted himself up a little, reached behind himself to feel for John's cock, and guided it to his hole. He swallowed up the gentle moan that John emitted when the head of his cock came into contact with his sphincter, and John slipped inside him in a single fluid motion a moment later. Suddenly confronted with the sensation of being completely filled, Sherlock moaned out loud and dug his nails into John's shoulders.

"Oh... oh, God!"

Sherlock dragged himself up, then sank back down onto John's lap. Again and again and again, until he felt as if he would fly apart. John moved with him, guiding and supporting him, thrusting up into the hot, wet channel whenever he hit the right stride, and alternately caressing Sherlock's hard nipples and weeping cock.

When his knot squeezed through the ring of muscle, locking them together, both groaned with pleasure. Sherlock clung to John's shoulder with one hand while the other held John's head in place where he had suctioned onto Sherlock's collarbone. John held Sherlock's arse securely, squeezing their bodies closer together and feeling where they were connected with the tips of his fingers.

Some time later, they were still sitting entwined on the couch, exchanging languid kisses. John's knot throbbed inside Sherlock in time with their heartbeats.

John ran his hands over Sherlock's back, his thighs, his arms.

"Sherlock?"

"Hm?"

"Did you like it? I mean... the scenting," John asked.

Sherlock hesitated a moment before leaning back a little to give John a searching look. "I'm fairly certain you know the answer to that..." he replied evasively.

John bit down on his bottom lip and nodded once. "Right... I liked it too. Can we do that again? Soon? It... it doesn't have to end like this of course, although I have enjoyed it very much."

"It doesn't usually go this way, but my hormones..."

"Yeah, I know..."

"Why?"

"Hm?"

"Why do you want it, John? Why do you want to be with me?" Sherlock asked, and felt his stomach clench uncomfortably. He couldn't even begin to count how many times he'd asked himself that very question over the past few days and weeks. But he needed certainty. "You know I don't want a classic bond. I made that clear from the start."

John looked down between their linked bodies and worried his lower lip. "I'm aware, Sherlock. I knew from the beginning that this wouldn't be the usual type of bond, and I've never expected you to change your mind... I know you need your freedom; that you want to be independent. And I respect that, even if my biology doesn't always make that easy – as you saw for yourself when Lestrade turned up here. But that doesn't mean I want to force you into the typical omega role that you're so dead set against. Does that make sense?"

Sherlock gave his head a barely noticeable sideways jerk. "No, not really. Why should you do that? You're an alpha. It's in your nature to want to have an omega under you. Both literally and figuratively. Your territorial behaviour is merely a symptom of that."

John snort-laughed. "I'm not some animal that's governed by animal impulses! Sure, my instincts do tend in that direction, but that doesn't mean I have to let them take charge. Not by a long shot. I promised you I'd stick to our agreement, and I've held up my end as much as possible. But... in the past few years, some things have happened that have shown it can't go on like this..." John said, placing one hand on Sherlock's cheek to make him look at him.

"We thought this whole thing would be easier, but it's not that simple after all. And now we need to make the best of it. I don't want to spend the rest of my life fighting with you."

"Then what do you want?" Sherlock asked.

"I want us to talk instead of arguing; I want to be able to come home and feel at ease; I want us both to be happy..."

Sherlock sighed softly. "Then you can't forbid me from pursuing my work. I want to continue to work with the Yard and solve cases, no matter whether an alpha or a beta's heading up the investigation. I want to have my own space where I can flourish... I want to be _me_."

"I... get that. And you should have everything you need to make you happy. But allow me to make mistakes once in a while. Talk to me if you feel I've treated you unfairly – this is all new to me too."

"All right... I'll... try."

** _One year and four months earlier_ **

Sherlock was staring out the window over his shoulder, his arms folded across his chest. It was sunny and the air full of birdsong; in contrast, the room was oppressively gloomy and stuffy. Too many people stealing his air. Too many pairs of eyes boring into his skin.

"Sherlock?" The therapist's voice always went up an octave when she said his name, trying to garner his attention. He didn't feel like facing the other patients, seeing their sorrowful expressions and confronting his new reality: group therapy. The individual sessions were bad enough, but having to open oneself up to others was part of the programme, and he was under increasing pressure to comply.

"Why don't you share with us how you felt after detox."

"Not interested."

He'd been at the facility for a couple of months now, a place with the polarising name 'New Horizons.' Mycroft had picked it out and organised Sherlock's transfer directly after his release from hospital. According to Lestrade, it had been the only way to circumvent a trial and lengthy prison sentence for drug possession.

During some grim moments, Sherlock had considered ridding himself of all the bother and simply taking off, going off the grid and seeking his fortune elsewhere.

_Elsewhere._

But where?

He wouldn't be able to escape John's emotions any longer if he couldn't afford Seven. But after the most recent incident, he would have renounced it anyway. Or would he really? After all, it had been the only thing keeping him from going completely bonkers. On the other hand, he hadn't been any better off even with the alpha pheromones and other illegal substances in the drug.

Aside from that, it was fairly complicated to manufacture Seven; too difficult for his rudimentary capabilities. The concoction that Sebastian had created wasn't nearly as pure as Wiggins' – which had ended up leading to the overdose and temporary cardiac arrest. The poisons had simply put Sherlock's body out of commission before he was able to call for help. It had been pure coincidence that DI Lestrade was there to save his life. The broken breastbone was a small price to pay...

At the same time, it felt as if he'd never be finished repaying the debts he had accrued. Repayments which started with this facility, where he had to share a room with another omega, then the communal showers and obligatory meals at fixed times. All the different therapy sessions with talking and crafting – as if omegas didn't have any other interests – and the rudimentary entertainment programme of selected films and books, all of which Sherlock had watched and read in no time.

He was bored to tears; that is, whenever he wasn't riddled with cramps or haunted by hallucinations.

In the initial stages of his detox, they'd had him on substitution therapy with another drug, which they had weaned him off of over the course of several weeks to prevent his body going into shock. The cramps and hallucinations were actually much weaker and easier to treat than if he'd gone cold turkey – or so he was told. It was still no walk in the park.

When Sherlock became aware of John's presence again after such a long break, he broke out in uncontrollable sobs, crying until his body was wrung dry. Feeling his alpha again was so incredibly moving and deeply intense that he didn't know how to deal with it.

The combination of happiness and grief threw him completely for a loop, especially after he had blocked his body from feeling anything at all for so long. And the profound sense of melancholy that John was broadcasting didn't improve the situation.

Sherlock ghosted around the facility for several days, focusing solely on coming to grips with the emotions that continued to bombard him, blunt and unfiltered. It took several weeks for the maelstrom to slowly stabilise, enabling him to differentiate between self- and external awareness (as the therapists called it).

Visits from his family members were few and far between. Mycroft didn't show up until one day three months after he was admitted. He came over to join Sherlock in the garden. They gave each other the silent treatment for a while, until Sherlock couldn't stand the oppressive silence any longer and asked after Anthea and Archie.

"They're fine," Mycroft replied brusquely, fumbling his pocket watch out of his waistcoat and consulting it – his mind already clearly on the way back to the city.

"You could have brought them along," Sherlock reproached him, but his voice was utterly lacking in venom.

"I wanted to see what condition you were in first."

At those words, Sherlock simply nodded, stood up, and went back inside.

Today, Mycroft had given advance notice that he would be visiting with his omega and son; at least this time Sherlock was forewarned. They met in the cafeteria, where family members were often received since it was easier to keep an eye on the patients and provide refreshments.

Sherlock almost always wore pyjama trousers and a dressing gown while prowling the halls, but today he'd put on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt and made a fairly futile attempt at taming his hair with some water. He couldn't control the grin that split his face when he saw Anthea sitting at one of the tables with a tiny human bundle in one arm. Mycroft sat beside her, the handle of his umbrella hanging off the edge of the table like a barrier between them.

"Anthea!" Sherlock cried, increasing his stride.

She pushed back her chair and stood up, maintaining her hold on the baby rather than handing it off to Mycroft as she drew Sherlock into a one-armed embrace.

"Sherlock... it's so good to see you," she said in her typical monotone, which Sherlock had greatly missed hearing. He smiled at her, only to redirect his gaze downward when a tiny fist tapped his shoulder, and his attention was demanded by a series of babbles.

Archibald Holmes was the spitting image of his parents. His heart-shaped face and full lips clearly came from Anthea, while his chestnut cowlick and ice-blue eyes originated with Mycroft – albeit such colouring was known to change. He was wearing dungarees and a blue-and-white t-shirt and kicked excitedly as he studied Sherlock with undisguised curiosity.

"May I?"

Anthea hesitated a moment before offering an uncertain smile and passing the baby to Sherlock.

"Be careful," she admonished, showing him how to hold the infant.

Just like their first encounter, Archie immediately grabbed Sherlock's index finger and squeezed it with all his might, tugging and drooling on it between excited squeals. Unable to wipe the stupid grin off his face, Sherlock sat down at the table and tightened his hold on the little creature, which was clearly trying to impart to him something of great importance.

Sherlock leaned closer to Archie and rubbed his cheek against the miniature, round face, taking care not to injure the baby's tender skin with his poorly shaven chin.

He inhaled the child's scent, taking note of the mingling of Mycroft's and Anthea's own personal compositions, and on top of that something entirely novel. Something warm, gentle, and adventurous.

Archie stared up at Sherlock with big, round eyes, groping unsuccessfully for a longer lock of hair that had fallen across Sherlock's forehead.

Sherlock's stomach clenched unpleasantly when he realised what exactly it was that he smelled in the little boy's immature scent: he was an omega. Unquestionably. It was obvious even now from his scent, and the evidence would be in his DNA as well. Another omega faced with a lifetime of injustice...

"Looks like he's developing splendidly," Sherlock said after a while.

"He's making satisfactory progress," was Mycroft's cool comment. "And how are you?"

"Mycroft," Anthea hissed, which surprised Sherlock more than his brother's unfortunate choice of words. He looked back and forth between the two of them, but decided to simply answer the question for the sake of keeping the peace.

"Things are going well. The therapy sessions are fairly annoying, and I'm often bored to tears, but –"

"Excuse me," a nurse interrupted as she approached the table. She plucked the baby out of Sherlock's arms without so much as a by-your-leave. "Sherlock, you know you're not allowed to lift anything heavy. That fracture will never heal properly!" She returned Archie to Anthea with more force than anyone in the party approved of, and took her leave again.

Sherlock squeezed his hands into fists and pressed them into his thighs. He couldn't believe that he was being denied even this one brief moment of happiness.

"I'm sorry, I didn't realise it hadn't healed yet," Anthea said.

Sherlock shook his head wearily as he looked at his brother's wife. "It's just unfortunate... A fractured sternum can take up to a year to fully heal, apparently. I'm not supposed to lift anything heavy or make any unnatural movements during that time. But... I've had frequent, heavy cramps that have had a negative impact on the healing process. I've – "

Sherlock fell silent when Archie let out a cry of protest and waved one of his little arms in Sherlock's direction.

"Looks like he's not quite finished with you yet," Anthea said, turned Archie around and sat him on her knee so that he could 'communicate' with Sherlock again.

Sherlock smiled and braced his arms on his thighs, holding his comparatively enormous fingers out to the baby. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Mycroft get up.

"I'll fetch us some drinks," he said curtly and left the group.

Sherlock glanced over at Anthea, but she didn't show any reaction to Mycroft's retreat. He knew better than to ask her just then about her relationship to his brother, so he bit back all of the questions sizzling on his tongue.

"Sherlock... there's something you should know. Something important," Anthea said after a moment.

"Hm?"

"Your flat on Montague Street... The lease is up and Mycroft won't be renewing it, since it's unclear how long you'll be staying here."

"Ah..."

"Yes... I'm so sorry. Don't worry about your things – everything's been packed up and put into storage. As soon as you're out of here, we'll help you find another place. Or... would you stay at ours?" The hope in the omega's voice was unmistakable, but the offer sent an ice-cold shiver down Sherlock's back. He shook his head and shrugged awkwardly.

"I don't think that's a good idea. Living under the same roof as Mycroft... I'd rather avoid that if at all possible."

Anthea sighed unhappily. "I understand. Still – the offer stands."

"Thanks, I appreciate it," Sherlock said, adding after a moment, "Did... er... has there been any mail for me?"

Anthea studied Sherlock intently for a few seconds before her expression shifted into something softer and milder. "No, I'm sorry..."

*

It happened one rainy morning several weeks later.

Sherlock had just finished his art therapy session, happy to have completed his last picture – a skull on a blue background – so that he could start a new project next time.

He'd got a cup of tea from the vending machine in the common room and was on his way to his favourite spot – a window seat with a view of the garden – to read one of the new books that had arrived in the last delivery. He hadn't been allowed to look through the Spartan offerings yet, and his state of ignorance had led to a kind of childlike curiosity sprouting in him.

It was strange how such small, utterly meaningless things could make him happy all of a sudden.

He was shuffling across the polished linoleum floor when his field of vision suddenly went fuzzy and he heard the cacophony of a bustling marketplace around him. Voices chattered at him in a foreign language, bright sunlight beat down on his bare hands and face, and sweat ran down his temples.

The brief impression disappeared in the blink of an eye, but before he could collect himself and continue on his way to his seat, a loud bang shattered the peace in the common room. Sherlock stopped abruptly and looked down, only to see his hand, which had been holding the tea a moment before, now empty and trembling; to see shattered porcelain and tea spilled all over the floor and down his trouser legs. To see blood blooming across his shoulder like silk watercolour paint spreading through smooth, stretched fabric.

Then came the pain.

Sherlock grabbed his shoulder with a combination of panic and disbelief. His left arm hung limp and utterly useless at his side, paralysed. His legs gave out and his knees hit the ground hard.

"John!" he screamed, barely aware of the tears pouring down his face. He was too occupied with the pain pulsing through his body, as if someone were holding a jackhammer against his shoulder. Shaking, he looked down at the tightly clenched hand holding his shoulder and realised there was no blood.

_Not my blood..._

_Oh, God!_

"John! John!" he screamed again and rolled onto his side, bereft of strength.

_No, no, no! Please no, please!_

He stared up at the ceiling in shock: it had turned into a glorious blue sky. One or two small clouds floated above him, mocking him. He whimpered helplessly until an orderly finally arrived and injected him with a tranquiliser.

*

Sherlock stared listlessly at the ceiling over his bed. They'd had to give him two more doses of tranquilisers before the crippling pain and agony had finally faded, and he was back to himself.

He'd begged and pleaded to use the telephone to contact his brother. But the nurses and orderlies had denied him his wish, citing a desire not to excite him further. After all, they thought that Sherlock's antics were the result of some drug-induced hallucinations and didn't believe a single word of his claim that he could feel what his alpha felt.

"I need to know! I need to be sure whether my alpha is alive or... or..."

An image of his mother lurked at the edge of his mind, of her lying on his father's side of the empty bed for weeks on end until death had finally delivered her.

In the end, one orderly eventually listened and led Sherlock to a telephone. He found Mycroft's number in the files, dialled it, and held the receiver out for him.

"Thank you..."

Mycroft answered after two rings.

"Holmes."

"Mycroft..." Sherlock whispered, already fighting back a fresh wave of tears.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, what... what's happened?"

"John... I don't know. I think he's been shot. I need... I have to know if he's alive... or if... if... Oh, God..." Sherlock turned his face away and brusquely wiped the tears off his cheeks.

"Sherlock..." His brother's voice sounded almost as despairing as his own. "I'll find out where he is and see what can be done. Try... try to calm down. I'll report back as soon as I can."

Sherlock hadn't heard anything from Mycroft since. Nearly half a day had passed, but the telephone hadn't rung again. Sherlock wasn't sure how well-informed Mycroft was about John's current location, what kind of authorisations might need to be obtained to get information on his condition, and how long it would take until such bureaucratic hurdles could be surmounted both here and in Afghanistan.

And so Sherlock stared at the ceiling, grateful for the dull pain in his shoulder. He simply had to believe that John was alive as long as he felt that pain.

There was nothing he could do except wait and run his hand absently over his unbroken skin, hoping it might give John some measure of relief. Probably not. It was probably just an old wives' tale that the link worked in both directions.

Sherlock perked his ears at the sound of a knock on his door.

"Yes?"

The orderly who had assisted Sherlock with the phone call earlier entered the room, followed by Mycroft.

"Mycroft?!"

Sherlock was on his feet in an instant, only to wince at the pain that flashed through his shoulder. It took him a moment to collect himself.

"I'll leave the two of you alone. But you can't stay here longer than half an hour. Otherwise you could go to the common room or the cafeteria," said the orderly and pulled the door shut behind himself.

Sherlock's gaze jumped from the door to his brother, silently willing him to say something.

"I set out as soon as we ended our call to bring you the news personally – no matter what it might be," Mycroft explained. Sherlock would have liked nothing more than to grab him by the collar and shake him to make him get to the point. "My assistants were able to locate John and put me in contact with his superior officer. He's doing as well as can be expected, given the circumstances."

The anxiety that had seized Sherlock since the incident in the common room relaxed its hold on him markedly. He let out an exhausted sigh and sank down onto the edge of the bed, buried his face in his hands, and rubbed his burning eyes.

"What are those circumstances?" he asked after a bit.

"You were correct, he was shot. He was at a market and was attacked by a boy scarcely half his age. The youth was able to flee, but they're searching for him. John survived because he was in the company of an alpha who acts as a medic in his unit. Without her... well..."

Sherlock listened patiently to the report, signalling his comprehension with a nod at the end. "What's her name?"

"What... does that matter?"

"Mycroft, please..." Sherlock said, too weak for a fight.

Mycroft withdrew his leather notebook from the inside pocket of his suit jacket and flipped to a page near the back. "Wilhelmina Murray."

"Could you … please... pass on my thanks to her? Without mentioning my name?"

"That's absurd. How should that – "

"I don't know," Sherlock said, flinging his hands over his head. "I don't know," he repeated, barely audible this time, fighting back the tears that were gathering in his eyes again. "She didn't just save his life; she saved mine too!"

*

Sherlock was finally released from the 'New Horizons' facility a couple of months later. Mycroft picked him up personally with his car and drove him back to London. They barely spoke during the ride; nothing more than a couple of meaningless clichés. Instead, they both enjoyed the mutual silence.

Sherlock was glad to be in charge of his own life again, even if – or perhaps because – he didn't know what was going to happen next. He treasured his newfound freedom almost as much as the meticulously pieced together reconciliation with his family, and hoped nothing would make him risk it all again anytime soon.

His shoulder still ached from time to time, but that was fine. The pain reminded him that he wasn't alone; that his alpha was alive and that he himself had narrowly escaped death once more. He'd learned how to deal with the emotions he received from John; how to master his life despite and especially _with_ the phantom in the back of his mind. And he was firmly resolved to finally honour the agreement he'd made with John over four years ago.

His enthusiasm was dampened slightly when he first set foot in his new digs on Baker Street. The flat was let by an elderly woman who lived on the ground floor and quite obviously had been instructed to keep an eye on Sherlock so that he didn't revert to his old habits and procure any Seven.

Sherlock soon took a liking to Mrs Hudson, however, and was glad to have her around without constantly getting on his nerves. The older beta had a wonderfully dry sense of humour and had absolutely no problem defending herself verbally when Sherlock took things a step too far without realising it. She occasionally cooked for him, and they would then eat together, which not only ensured that Sherlock finally gained some weight, but also counteracted the gnawing sense of loneliness that snuck up on him some days.

Every couple of weeks, Sherlock visited Anthea and Archie to see how they were doing and admire the advances his nephew was making. The relationship between Mycroft and Anthea was still precarious, but they seemed to have settled into a long-term cease-fire that both could live with relatively well.

Sherlock resumed taking cases after a while, and consulted DI Lestrade at the Yard whenever he got stuck. Sherlock didn't know whether anything was going on between Mycroft and Lestrade – or at least, he didn't want to know. He ignored the occasional tang of tobacco and tweed that he picked up around Lestrade, and hoped and prayed that whatever was brewing in the background wouldn't explode one day.

Beyond that, Sherlock met up with some of his old acquaintances – or perhaps even friends – again. First and foremost was the pathologist, Molly Hooper, the beta from St Bart's who was now working closely with the Yard and didn't seem to have any difficulties with Sherlock's mannerisms. Then there was the beta Sally Donovan, who took an interest in human rights and served as the first point of contact at the Yard for omegas, who often weren't taken seriously.

It all could have been so nice if Sherlock's doorbell hadn't rung one day, forcing a sudden confrontation with his past.

The man standing outside the door no longer looked like the young alpha Sherlock had met in the laboratory at St Bart's. He leaned heavily on the cane in his right hand, while his left dangled uselessly. His ocean-blue eyes had lost their sparkle, his blond hair was dull and still cropped in the military style. The bulging duffel bag at his feet smelled of sand, disinfectant, and unwashed laundry.

But there was also a dulcet pain in Sherlock's chest, a sweet burning in his heart and butterflies in his stomach.

"John..."

+++

tbc


	19. Chapter 19

**II.**

John was thrilled when he realised Sherlock was letting go more until he was at the point where he didn't just tolerate their coupling as a bothersome part of their biology, but actively welcomed it.

The last climax of that heat left John riding a massive high. He had pounded into his omega with wild, exuberant fervour while Sherlock cheered him on with ecstatic noises calling for _more, faster, harder_. Until Sherlock came with a shout, virtually absorbing the entirety of John's knot inside him. The contractions of his internal muscles pumped John dry and made him come so hard that he left red fingerprints and scratches on Sherlock's milky-white skin from his unrelenting grip.

He rolled onto his side, gasping for air, and pulled Sherlock close so he could kiss the reddened skin of his shoulders and upper arms as penitence.

"Sorry..." he said, running his fingertips over a particularly prominent scratch with a feather-light touch. "I didn't mean to hurt you."

"'s all right," Sherlock mumbled along with a huge yawn. A few moments later, he was asleep.

As with the first heat they'd shared, John's instincts told him that Sherlock wouldn't be experiencing any more surges. He only intended to rest a little, just until his throbbing knot had shrunk enough for him to get up and go to his own bed. Even if there was nothing in the world he wanted more than to cuddle up to his omega tonight, John didn't dare push the limits of Sherlock's tolerance any harder when it came to his presence.

The stress of the last few days had taken their toll, though, and John was fast asleep in no time. When he awoke the next morning, he was still holding a dozing Sherlock firmly against his body. One leg and one arm were thrown possessively over the omega's slender form, his nose buried in dark curls. Apparently nothing had come of his planned retreat, although his knot had deflated and his cock had slipped out of Sherlock sometime during the night.

Trying not to wake Sherlock, John cautiously rubbed his nose against the other man's neck, inserting it further into the space between his neck and his shoulder. John inhaled deeply, taking in the familiar scent of his omega until it suffused his entire being. Although he could clearly tell that the heat was over, the delicious fragrance still caused a warm, tingly sensation in his stomach.

_Scenting, hm?_ John thought to himself, now taking shallow breaths. He needed to watch out if he was going to do this with Sherlock every day. After all, the omega had told him that the purpose wasn't generally foreplay, but rather to strengthen the bonds within a family.

_Family..._ John hadn't thought of their relationship in those terms before. But Sherlock was completely correct with his choice of words. John was part of Sherlock's family, and the reverse was true as well. It was a soothing thought which awakened a sense in him of unconditional belonging.

At the same time, none of those things changed the fact that the scents of their bodies, the remnants of natural lubricants, sex, and sweat had combined to create a seductive cocktail that made John's loins tingle in a very promising way. He hastily moved his hips back so as not to bump up against Sherlock's arse and start rubbing off. Just as he was about to slide out of bed, Sherlock stirred. One hand reached for John's lower arm, holding him back.

"John?" Sherlock murmured sleepily. "Where are you going?"

"The heat's over, Sherlock. I should get up and not... Why don't you just sleep a little longer, okay?"

John carefully extricated himself, inhaled deeply one last time and, without even thinking about it, dropped a feather-light goodbye kiss on Sherlock's shoulder.

*

John methodically lathered himself up in the shower, washing his overworked body. As he did so, his hand wandered down between his legs to clean his cock. As much as he would have liked to devote a little more attention to that appendage, this was quite literally a case of 'the spirit is willing but the body is weak.' The effects of the past few days' exertions simply wouldn't allow him to get hard, despite his thoughts wandering back to the couch where Sherlock had sunk to his knees and indulged him with his mouth.

John had never expected such a selfless act from his omega. Oral stimulation was a rare pleasure for alphas anyway: their cocks were simply too large. The few times one of John's sexual partners had attempted it, it hadn't taken long before they'd given up. It didn't usually end up being much more than a little friction on his glans.

Not with Sherlock. He'd persisted in trying to fit more and more of John's erection in, licking and sucking with abandon, all the while making the most delectable sounds. The whole operation had seemed to arouse the omega as much as John. When Sherlock had finally clambered onto him, he'd been so wonderfully wet and uninhibited that John had almost come right there on the spot.

As much as John had enjoyed the whole thing in hindsight, he was also quite shy about addressing it. Maybe he'd have the chance later, but the timing just hadn't been right yet. Either way – John knew that the images and the pleasure Sherlock had given him would serve as masturbation material for the next several months.

*

John was just setting the table for breakfast when Sherlock shuffled out of his bedroom, sleepy and rumpled. Ensconced in nothing more than his blue dressing gown, he stopped in the doorway and yawned.

"Good morning," John greeted him.

"Morning... you're making breakfast? For both of us?"

John nodded and gestured at a basket of fragrant scones that he'd just fetched fresh from Speedy's oven a few minutes earlier. He smiled awkwardly. "Of course for both of us. I was also about to make some rashers and eggs. We've got a lot of calories to make up for. Why don't you have a quick shower while I finish up?"

A small furrow formed above Sherlock's nose as he gazed at the table, deep in thought. Finally, he nodded and disappeared into the bathroom.

John started to feel the niggling of a guilty conscience as he laid out the bacon strips in the skillet, cracked the eggs into a bowl, seasoned and beat them. It looked like he'd provoked Sherlock more than intended with his gruff manner on the morning after their first heat. Even if Sherlock's behaviour back then hadn't been any better. After all, he hadn't wasted any time getting rid of everything that had been soiled by their bodily fluids during their copulation.

John dropped butter into a second pan, poured in the eggs, and flipped on the kettle to make some Earl Grey. Had Sherlock felt as lousy as John that first time, both physically and mentally? he mused as he moved the pan back and forth to spread the egg mixture evenly. Oddly, his body wasn't complaining as loudly this morning as it had after their first time. Maybe he'd taken the painkillers in time. Or he was just that much more fit.

Still, his omega must also be in pain. Their last round in particular had been rather... _vigorous_. He couldn't suppress the self-congratulatory smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he set a prophylactic blister pack of paracetamol and a muscle relaxant beside Sherlock's plate.

*

That evening, John flipped half-heartedly through the paper from the day before as he listened to the click-clack of Sherlock's hectic typing on his laptop and the absent-minded mumbling sounds the omega made from time to time.

The day had passed in a surprisingly harmonious manner. After breakfasting together, John had helped Sherlock change the bedding. Upon discovering the absorbent mattress protector underneath the fitted sheet, he'd had to smother a smirk. Despite Sherlock's verbal protestations against wanting to share another heat, the omega had clearly gone out and procured a mattress pad. Of course John was wary of making any comments along those lines, well knowing that it would be like poking a hornet's nest. Their relationship status was too fragile at the moment.

They'd spent the afternoon in instinctive proximity. Whether dozing lazily, stretching sore muscles, replenishing their body's supply of vitamins and minerals with litre upon litre of tea and water, or finishing off the remaining scones with a pot of clotted cream – they were never far apart. Always within an arm's length of each other.

Sherlock's scent blanketed John's tender nerve receptors like a soothing balm. And he caught sight of Sherlock grimacing a couple of times, then turning furtively in John's direction and inhaling deeply, after which he would visibly relax. A quick dive on the internet confirmed John's suspicion: alphas and omegas needed to stay close after a heat in order to promote rapid recovery. Apparently that was the secret to why he was doing so much better this time than after their first encounter.

John looked pensively over at the self-help book that lay on the coffee table. Mutual honesty was one of the fundamental principles that the book emphasised.

Honesty made you vulnerable, but it also paved the way for a sense of warm camaraderie.

John cleared his throat. "I'm doing much better today than after our first heat."

"Hm?" Sherlock tore his eyes away from his laptop screen with a bewildered expression, his fingers still hovering over the keyboard.

"I'm feeling better. My pain level's better. And so is…" He cleared his throat again to shift the frog in his throat. He didn't like talking about emotional stuff, but he wanted to try to be open with Sherlock. "… my emotional state. How... how about you?"

The corners of Sherlock's mouth took on a stubborn edge, and he looked as if he were about to blurt out a snotty response. But a sidelong glance at the reference book and then at John's insecure smile caused his posture to relax, and he nodded in agreement.

"I'm also feeling better this time. I thought I simply wasn't used to the physical exertion the first time. And you're so... so big... " A charming blush spread from Sherlock's neck up to his cheeks. "But I think it's having you close that's facilitated the healing process."

"Agreed," John said. "I read that it can be helpful for alpha and omega to stay together. I'm glad we aren't apart this time."

It looked as if Sherlock were about to say something else, but he ended up grunting his concurrence and returned to his computer.

John scratched the back of his head, feeling a vague sense of embarrassment. He truly wasn't used to talking about his feelings and it took a huge amount of effort on his part. Not quite sure what else to do next, he picked up the book and opened it to a random page.

_Spend time together._

John shook his head, amused. The advice couldn't be more apropos.

_Go on dates. Go out to a restaurant, cinema, or theatre. Go for a walk, visit a museum or the beach, or have a picnic. It doesn't matter what you feel like doing – as long as you are spending time together._

"Sherlock?"

"What now?" the omega asked grumpily, only to sigh contritely a moment later. "Sorry."

"It's all right," John said with a smirk. "I was just wondering whether you'll have difficulty going out alone again this time."

Sherlock wrinkled his brow, giving it some consideration, and finally shrugged, his gaze once again fixed on the monitor.

"I can't say for sure. But I don't feel as anxious as last time." He pursed his lips, clearly put off by his admission and having confessed to an apparent weakness.

"Let's have dinner," John said.

"What?"

"Let's go out for dinner tonight. We'll go outside together, you can face up to whatever's out there, and..." John lifted the book up as if to place a shield between himself and Sherlock. "We can tick off one of the assignments from the book and have a date."

"A _date?"_

"A date!"

*

To John's great surprise, Sherlock didn't launch into a long-winded argument against his proposal, instead taking only a moment to consider before suggesting a restaurant within walking distance.

The brief stroll was undertaken in silence for the most part, although the atmosphere wasn't unpleasant. It was more like a relaxed sense of togetherness. Still, John snuck sidelong glances at Sherlock from time to time, looking for signs of any discomfort. Fortunately, his omega didn't appear to be anxious or insecure at all. Just the opposite: he held his head high, his hands pushed deep into the pockets of his greatcoat, and kept up a brisk, confident pace close by John's side as they walked down the street.

It didn't take long before Sherlock was opening the door of a modest eatery. He gestured John inside with a nod. The owner, a corpulent gentleman from southern Italy with a booming laugh and a mischievous gleam in his eye, welcomed them exuberantly as he led them to a small table by the window.

"Everything is on the house for you and your date, Sherlock!" the man – Angelo, according to Sherlock's introduction – assured them. They were both given a menu before Angelo grabbed a candle from the next table and set it down between alpha and omega with a wink. "More romantic!" he insisted.

John resisted his initial impulse to correct the man. He found it incredibly difficult because the memories of all of their disagreements were still so fresh. But in the end, Sherlock was indeed his date. So many things had changed between them. And that was why John didn't hesitate when Angelo offered them a bottle of wine to accompany their dinner. At the same time, he found it a little frustrating that Sherlock, in choosing this restaurant, had robbed him of the opportunity to cover the cheque for both of them. After all, he'd wanted to treat his omega; but he could hardly turn down Angelo's generous offer just for the sake of his tarnished pride.

After sharing an appetiser of fresh mozzarella, green tomatoes, and a delicate vinaigrette, John indulged in a large plate of spaghetti with meat sauce. He was in urgent need of protein. Sherlock in turn hungrily chowed down on his pasta with wild mushroom sauce. Between chewing and swallowing, the omega explained how he had met Angelo several months earlier and saved him from being sent to prison. Sherlock told the story with so much relish and dry humour that John felt mesmerised, hanging on his every word.

When they both finally pushed aside their plates, their stomachs filled and sated, Angelo emerged from the kitchen once more and set two plates of tiramisu on the table and refilled their glasses. Sherlock, who had just finished his story, smiled up at the man, awaiting a comment to verify his tale.

Angelo placed one massive hand on Sherlock's shoulder and gave it a friendly squeeze, launching into his own animated version of Sherlock's brilliant assistance and the fact that he would forever be deeply in his debt.

John had to coerce his face into smile at the sight they presented. He forced it out between gritted teeth, curling his hand into a fist under the table until his fingernails dug painfully into his palm. The beta male was too close to his omega. He was touching him. He had _no right_ to do that.

A growl arose from John's throat, which he tamped down with a great application of willpower. He quickly took a sip of wine and cleared his throat loudly. The alpha in him still wanted to leap out of his chair and tear the other man away, show him his place, and ensure that he never laid a hand on his omega again. The rational side of John knew that such a territorial display was completely out of line and would never be tolerated by Sherlock.

Sherlock would never accept him at his side, would never give their relationship a chance if… if… _hold on a second!_

With a sneaking suspicion, John looked the omega over more closely and fancied he detected an underlying alertness in his otherwise calm looking expression. In addition, he caught a whiff of the stale scent of doubt and distrust, almost completely obscured by the aromas of countless Italian seasonings swirling around the room. And it seemed to be coming from Sherlock.

_You bastard_, John thought to himself, stunned speechless.

This whole scene was nothing more than a charade designed to tease out John's possessive side. Sherlock wanted to provoke him until John's internal alpha won the upper hand and confirmed all of the omega's prejudices.

_I'm not some animal that's governed by its instincts!_

John's own words echoed as a warning in his head. It was about time to convince Sherlock Holmes of that exact fact!

All of a sudden, the lion's share of his tension fell away, and John tucked into his tiramisu with renewed gusto, encouraging Angelo to go ahead and share more anecdotes about those early days. He caught sight of Sherlock's surprised expression out of the corner of his eye and even fancied he could detect something like acknowledgement in his body language. The stale odour was replaced by something soft and airy. Relief and... hope?

Later, once they were back at the flat and had wished each other good-night, John noticed Sherlock pick up the self-help book to take it with him to his room.

"Sherlock?" John stopped him just as he was about to leave the living room.

"Yes?"

"Today was good, yeah?"

In lieu of a reply, Sherlock simply nodded, unconsciously tightening his grip on the book.

A small smile tugged at the corners of John's mouth as he watched Sherlock go down the hall. Maybe things would work out if the two of them just tried hard enough.

*

John had to return to the clinic the next day. His leave of absence for the heat phase was over, unfortunately, and he was expected back.

Sarah gave him a friendly greeting, but was unable to entirely banish the hint of melancholy from her lips. John felt sorry for her, but he didn't regret his decision to turn the beta down for one second. Just the opposite: he was certain he'd done precisely the right thing, and he felt fantastic. Sure, there was a twinge here and there from an overworked muscle, but all in all he felt as if he could uproot trees. It was just like after the first heat, when a new appreciation of life and thirst for action had been awakened in him. It felt as if his endorphins were still singing and dancing inside.

At the same time, a niggling sense of missing Sherlock tickled at his subconscious, trying to break through to the surface. It itched now and then like an annoying mosquito bite, sometimes more faintly and then making its presence known more urgently again, always getting stronger whenever he thought about it. John would have liked to say good-bye to Sherlock in person that morning. Maybe done another scenting. But the omega had still been asleep when John left the flat.

John picked up two sandwiches during his lunch break, returning to his desk to eat. He half-heartedly skimmed the latest news reports on the internet, read through the sports results from the weekend, and clicked away from the celebrity gossip blurbs.

After finishing the last corner of white bread and tossing the packaging material into the bin, a quick peek at the clock told him that he still had enough time before the afternoon consultations began. He withstood the urge to take out his phone and send Sherlock a text. Something like that wouldn't be appreciated.

Instead, he opened another tab in his browser and looked for an online version of "How to Fall in Love." Unsurprisingly, the search engine delivered not only links to online bookshops, but also several counselling platforms and a bunch of advice sites.

Smirking to himself, he clicked on a link with the promising title '101 Tips for Real Alphas.'

The homepage looked neither serious nor helpful. Instead, it was full of all sorts of clichés about the world of alphas. From 'Proving you're the most powerful alpha in the room,' to 'Shaping your omega to suit.'

No wonder Sherlock had such a negative view of alphas, if this was really the prevailing image in society. John shook his head, about to close the page, when something that seemed halfway reasonable caught his eye.

_Spoil your omega! The right way to woo and seduce them._

John rested his chin on his hand as he considered. Spoiling? Seducing? There was no way Sherlock would accept that. But wooing? Maybe that was exactly what he should do.

But how did one go about wooing Sherlock Holmes? Not with candy and flowers, that was for sure. Nor with poetry or – God forbid – love letters. Not that John was in love with him. But his letters from Afghanistan had all gone unanswered, so that option was off the table.

Maybe they could do something together? Go to the cinema or the museum? The theatre? Opera? Ballet?

What was Sherlock interested in? Music, perhaps?

That time when John had visited Sherlock in Kensington, he'd noticed a violin case and sheet music. The same type of instrument lay by the window in the flat on Baker Street. And yet he'd never seen Sherlock play.

Food was just a necessary part of human biology in Sherlock's eyes, so visiting another restaurant probably wouldn't be considered wooing.

Feeling frustrated, John clicked the little X in the upper right corner of the web page and closed the window. He was becoming painfully aware of how little he actually knew about his omega.

The only thing that truly brought Sherlock any pleasure was his experiments and working with the Yard. But John had more or less torpedoed all of that. He'd done damage more than once with his territorial displays, placing Sherlock in a very disadvantageous position.

And all of a sudden, he knew what he had to do.

No silly courtship rituals such as that shady advice site wanted to sell him on. No manipulating his omega to cater to John's desires.

The point was to do right by Sherlock, to make him happy, and beyond that, show him that John accepted his free spiritedness. And if in doing so, he was able to prove that he was alpha enough to apologise for his unacceptable behaviour, that was just an added bonus.

He only hoped it wasn't too late.

Checking his watch – he only had five more minutes – he did an internet search for the number of New Scotland Yard to make an appointment with DI Lestrade.

*

That evening, John was in such a hurry to get home that he took the stairs two at a time. Sherlock was sitting in his black leather armchair in the living room, reading a book. He looked up in surprise when John came in.

"John! Is everything all right?"

"Yeah, everything's grand. I got you... no, wait." The sight of his omega released a warm, bubbly feeling in his stomach, even as it increased his sense of something being missing. "Do you think we can do it again tonight? I've been gone all day, and..."

"Do again? What exactly?" Sherlock drew his eyebrows together dubiously.

"Scenting. You said it's often done as a form of greeting after work. Only if it's okay with you, of course."

Sherlock's forehead furrowed in thought; he seemed to be having an internal debate. Yet at the same time, John had the impression that his behaviour was more for show than genuine, as it only took a couple of seconds before Sherlock set his book aside and stood up.

He stood in front of John and tilted his head to one side, exposing his neck. John stepped in gratefully, wrapped one hand around Sherlock's bicep, and pulled his omega close. He pressed his nose into Sherlock's neck and inhaled deeply. The fragrances of honey, nightshade, and adventure tickled his olfactory receptors, causing him to release a satisfied sigh. He also detected an undertone of formaldehyde, chemicals, and floral perfume.

"Oh, you were at the lab?" John inquired once he'd pieced together the composition.

Fortunately, there was no potential for conflict lurking in the floral perfume, even if John couldn't quite place its source. "Nice that you got out," he hastened to add. He didn't want to give the impression that he disapproved of Sherlock's visit to Bart's.

John inhaled again, withstanding the urge to put his lips on the mole just underneath Sherlock's earlobe. He then took a step back and tilted his own head.

Sherlock was on him in the blink of an eye, pushing his nose into John's skin. He also made a satisfied sound and sucked air in loudly.

"You had sandwiches for lunch..."

"Correct," John chuckled.

"Pastrami and avocado. A disproportionately high percentage of cases of the common cold in the afternoon. You had to disinfect your hands frequently. And you had a beer. You went to the pub. With..."

Sherlock stepped back, disconcerted, and gave John a suspicious look.

"… Lestrade. You met up with Lestrade. Why?"

John grinned as he picked his bag up from the floor and opened the clasp.

"I've brought you something..."

+++

tbc


	20. Chapter 20

Sherlock followed the motions of his alpha's hands, bemused, as he undid the clasps of his leather briefcase and withdrew a blue file folder. He frowned as he took and opened it. Inside, he found copies of reports and several bloody crime scene photos. He inhaled sharply.

"The McKenzie file..." he said, staring wide-eyed at John as if asking him to confirm the obvious.

John smiled broadly and nodded. "I asked DI Lestrade to make another copy for you after the last two... well. Sorry I destroyed them. I also told him you'd be waiting for him to call to discuss the current state of the investigation."

"Really?" Sherlock said, still shell-shocked that John had bent over backwards to do this. He had already proven during their date at Angelo's that he was able to control his impulses when he tried, even if Sherlock couldn't help noticing the pungent scent of jealousy.

"You'd let me go to the Yard to take up the case again? You know Lestrade would be there the whole time. In the same room with me." Sherlock set the folder down on the desk and examined John's face, alert for signals. He smelled John's scent destabilise as something struggled to reach the surface, only to be ruthlessly shut down a moment later.

John nodded his head jerkily, turning away at the same time to take off his jacket. "Course," he said, letting the single word hover in the air for a moment, almost as if he wanted to add something. In the end he left it at that.

"And... you won't check up on me to make sure Lestrade doesn't get too close?"

John exhaled a soft sigh and turned back to Sherlock. "Don't worry, I won't do that. I'll probably never like it when other alphas are around you, no surprise there, but I don't want to ruin your chances of ever working a case again. I understand how much it means to you."

Overwhelmed with gratitude and relief, Sherlock took two steps closer to John and cupped his face with his hands. He was about to kiss him, but as soon as he became aware of what he was doing, he hastily took his hands away. His cheeks were burning and his heart pitter-pattering nervously. Why in the world had he done that?

He quickly moved past John into the kitchen, even going so far as to consider hiding in his room to avoid another discussion about their relationship. In the end, however, he decided that such behaviour was even more unseemly than grabbing his alpha's face. John had done him a huge favour, after all – and even if Sherlock didn't want to admit that he was now in John's debt, he was well aware that it was now his turn to make a contribution toward improving things between them.

He listened tensely for several breathless seconds, until John finally cleared his throat, went to the couch, and sat down. He didn't mention the file or Sherlock's strange advance again.

*

Sherlock didn't sleep well the next few nights. He ascribed it to the case, which was exerting an increasingly irresistible pull on him, but he knew instinctively that what he was missing was having John close by. It would have been so easy to fix the problem if he would simply go and get into John's bed. But he didn't want to lose face by doing that. He'd already shown his hand far too openly when it came to his feelings, in his opinion, and he was going to do anything in his power to avoid exposing himself even further.

Instead, he frittered away his nights, doing research or experiments in the kitchen or the laboratory at St Bart's, and visiting the crime scenes – even though there wasn't much left to discover after so many weeks had passed.

The McKenzie case concerned a series of homicides. Five alphas had been attacked and killed while separated from their omegas; two of the omegas had gone into rapid decline shortly thereafter due to their broken bond, and eventually died. The alphas had been attacked inside their flats or houses. They had been drugged and had their hands and feet bound. Then their jugular and femoral arteries had been slit, and they had bled out.

Aside from their primary gender and the fact that they were all bound to omegas, there didn't seem to be anything worth mentioning that they either had in common, or which distinguished them from one another. They were all of different ages, had different jobs, and apparently hadn't known each other. The omegas who had survived the deaths of their alphas were either still in hospital or struggling so much with their grief that they were barely responsive.

The time between each murder had increased, but there was no recognisable mathematical pattern there either. Lestrade had hit a dead end, and Sherlock couldn't help him. Whoever the killer was, he was holding his cards close to his chest.

Sherlock was therefore doubly surprised to receive a text from Lestrade about a week later announcing that another victim had been found. Another alpha.

It was Friday. John had just returned from his shift at the surgery, and was piling the take-away he'd brought home with him for lunch onto two plates, clearly intending to share it with Sherlock. Sherlock had already memorised the address Lestrade had sent him, and was about to put on his shoes.

"John, I need to go out. There's another victim and I need to view the crime scene before the forensic team start mucking things up in there."

John looked up, eyebrows raised, and lowered the spoon back into the aluminium container. "Oh, right... It... That won't be dangerous, will it?" he asked, licking a drop of sauce off his thumb.

Distracted by the image, it took Sherlock a second to shake his head. "Unlikely. The killer will be long gone by now. Well then, see you later..." he said, opened the door to the flat, and hurried out.

Halfway down the stairs, he stopped and looked back up. His fingers drummed nervously on the railing, his thoughts racing. Finally, he came to a decision and lunged back up to open the door to the kitchen.

John, who had just stuffed a slice of tomato into his mouth, looked up in surprise.

"You're a doctor; in fact, you're an army doctor..." Sherlock said thoughtfully.

John nodded, chewed, and swallowed his mouthful. "That's right."

"You've seen a lot of injuries, violent deaths. Bit of trouble too, I bet."

"Of course, yes," John replied, his voice thick. He picked up his glass of water and took a large sip. "Enough for a lifetime," he added after clearing his throat delicately.

"Want to see some more?" Sherlock asked, arching one eyebrow provocatively. He was suddenly very aware of a change in John's scent as adrenaline thrummed through his veins and the lust for adventure flooded every cell.

"Oh God, yes!" No sooner had he spoken the words than John stood up and grabbed the jacket hanging over the back of his chair. He hadn't taken his shoes off yet, so he was ready to leave in no time. His lunch was already forgotten.

Sherlock felt a flutter of pride in his chest, and it was reflected in his smile. He flew down the stairs ahead of John and onto the street, barely waiting until John had pulled the door shut before flagging down a taxi and climbing inside. As soon as John had slid into the backseat with him, he gave the driver the address and launched into a brief rundown of the details of the case for John.

*

As expected, Lestrade was rather surprised to see John when they arrived at the crime scene. Sherlock sent him a pointed glare to dismiss the inevitable question of whether the alpha had forced Sherlock to bring him along because he was jealous, and ducked underneath the crime scene tape.

"Sherlock, John, good that you made it," Lestrade said, holding out his hand for John to shake after a brief initial hesitation.

John took it and gave it a friendly squeeze, returning the greeting with a simple "Greg," which made Sherlock blink in bewilderment. Apparently the two alphas were on better terms than he'd thought, if they were on a first-name basis.

Lestrade led the men into the adjacent bedroom where the murder had occurred. The alpha lay on the floor, just like the previous victims. His shirt collar and right trouser leg had been sliced open to afford better access to his arteries. His neck and thigh were marred by two deep cuts, his clothing and the carpet underneath the body drenched in blood.

Sherlock looked over at John, who was examining the scene with a combination of dismay and professional curiosity. His left hand clenched repeatedly, which Sherlock recognised as a nervous habit to regain control over the agitation he felt. He looked slightly ill, as did most of the others in the room; not unsurprising, given the horrendous stench.

As if he'd read Sherlock's mind, Lestrade handed them a small tin of menthol ointment to smear underneath their noses. John returned the ointment gratefully and squared his shoulders.

In the meantime, Sherlock put on a pair of latex gloves, took out his retractable magnifier, and circled the body. He examined it from head to toe, trying to make out whether there were any differences in the shape or depth of the incisions in comparison to the other victims. He made one final round of the dead alpha, meticulously feeling for other trace evidence at various spots on the body.

"John," he announced, taking a step back so that his alpha had an unobstructed view. "Opinion?"

John first got nonverbal permission from Lestrade before pulling on a pair of gloves and methodically inspecting the body.

"Time of death between two to four hours ago," he said, grasping the man's lower jaw to take a careful look inside his open mouth. "No signs of resistance, no bruises or anything like that... He must have already been unconscious when the killer cut his clothes to get at his arteries. Probably the same sedative as was used on the others, you'll probably find the injection spots under his clothes. The perpetrator probably has at least a rudimentary knowledge of anatomy. It's also quite likely that he got some blood on himself, considering how much of it got sprayed around."

Sherlock nodded and turned to Lestrade. "It was definitely the same killer. It's the same signature."

"Yeah, I think so too." Lestrade said, keeping his eyes locked on John as he continued his examination.

When Sherlock looked over at his alpha as well, he noticed a strip of light on John's shoulder that was being reflected from the building across the way. Sherlock went to the window to see what was responsible for it. It might simply be a neighbour who had opened their window for some fresh air, or a curious onlooker who had noticed the police presence, or...

Sherlock saw the man straightaway. He stood in the second-floor stairwell, watching the flat where the murder had occurred through a pair of binoculars. He jerked with surprise when their eyes met, quickly slammed the window shut, and disappeared somewhere inside the building.

Following his instincts, Sherlock dashed out of the room. "Lestrade! Across the road, second floor!"

"Sherlock? Sherlock!" John's voice echoed against the walls behind him. He also heard Lestrade's protests, but Sherlock had no time to stop and explain. His intuition told him that this man must have something to do with all of these events – and that he couldn't let him get away. He dashed down the stairs, taking two or even three at a time, just barely managing to prevent himself from losing his balance and toppling over.

Once at the bottom, he flung open the door and paused for a fraction of a second upon realising that John was hot on his heels.

"I saw him," Sherlock said between two searing breaths.

"Let's go then!" John said, following in his wake without so much as a moment's hesitation.

They sprinted to the house across the street, only to find that no one had come out that way. Instead, they discovered a back door on the ground floor that led into a fenced garden. The door stood wide open, having apparently been slammed back with great force.

"There!" John cried, pointing to a row of black skips standing next to a metal gate. The man from the window was just pulling himself up onto the lid of one of them, preparing to climb over the wall. He looked back over his shoulder with panic in his eyes, slithered over the edge, and dropped down on the other side.

Just as Sherlock reached the other end of the garden, he heard the man land on the ground with a muffled thud, then cry out in pain. There were several narrow lanes behind the wall, leading to numerous other gardens and houses. The chance of losing him back there increased with every metre the potential killer gained on them.

Sherlock mastered the skip and the wall much faster than their suspect, due to his height. He landed next to a pile of glass from a shattered mirror, its frame leaning against the wall. Just in time, he saw the man flying down the lane to turn left at an intersection. Sherlock took up the chase. A few seconds later, he heard John come over the wall as well.

In the next moment, a scream ricocheted off the walls surrounding them. When Sherlock reached the intersection, he saw a beta lying bleeding on the ground, both hands frantically gripping her neck. The – now very likely – attacker and killer had run a few more steps, a large mirror shard in one hand. Blood dripped from the tip, staining his fist. His eyes were wild, a combination of terror and fury distorting his youthful visage.

_Omega..._ The thought flashed into Sherlock's mind like a lightning bolt as soon as he caught a whiff of the man's scent, infused with stress and fear.

"Sherlock!" John had just rounded the corner when the other omega whirled around and dashed away.

"Shi – " Sherlock glanced down at the whimpering female, who was trying desperately to curl up into a tiny ball. He heard John curse, then saw him drop to his knees and replace her hands with his, all the while giving her instructions and speaking to her in soothing tones. It took no more than ten seconds. When John looked up at Sherlock, something flared in his eyes that made Sherlock's stomach flip.

"Don't let him get away!"

Sherlock nodded, took his phone out of his coat pocket, and hurriedly shimmied the garment off his shoulders. He tossed it down beside John, glad to be rid of the extra weight, and set off again on the trail of the omega.

The chase only lasted a few minutes, but they felt like hours to Sherlock. His lungs were on fire, his muscles screaming, and the past few sleepless nights were taking an increasing toll.

But the other omega wasn't faring any better. His strides became slower and slower, until eventually he tripped and lost his balance. He landed on the ground with a dull thud, scraping open his elbow and knee. He looked back at Sherlock, his eyes widened in fear. When Sherlock caught up to him, he flipped over, scrabbling for purchase on the filthy ground as he tried to get his legs under him, but they kept giving out. He was still holding the bloody glass shard in his hand, which he now brandished at Sherlock.

Sherlock stopped in front of him, breathing hard, and tried to evaluate whether this omega could be responsible for six murders and two related deaths. He couldn't be much older than about twenty-five – although an omega's face could be deceiving – was spindle-thin, and had stringy hair that hung to his chin. Despite the autumnal temperatures, he wasn't wearing anything more than a t-shirt and jeans, with worn trainers. He was completely inconspicuous, not particularly attractive, and so very _normal_ that there was a part of Sherlock which simply refused to see him as a potential killer.

He had so many questions, but knew all too well that he wasn't the one who should be posing them. Not now, and not here at any rate. There would be time for all of that later. He took out his phone pressed one of the speed-dial buttons to connect with Lestrade. No sooner had he reeled off their location than the omega leapt to his feet and lashed out at Sherlock with the shard.

Sherlock saw the attack coming from a mile away, and wasn't surprised in the least. He easily sidestepped and tripped the youth with one leg, while with the same motion grabbing the arm with the glass, wrenching it up behind his back, and knocking the fragment out of his hand. Two deep cuts ran across the other omega's palm. Sherlock pressed his knee into the small of his back, unwound the blue scarf from around his neck, and used it to stanch the wound.

"Hold still!" he commanded from between bared teeth.

"Omega... You... you're an omega!" the young man panted with a combination of awe and disbelief.

"Just like you."

"No, not like me. I'm nothing. And you – you're – " He fell silent at the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps. The scent of several alphas filled the alley, none of them John. The other omega froze.

Sherlock stepped away from him as one of the police officers placed handcuffs around his wrists. He looked around. Lestrade strode over.

"Are you all right?" he asked, his voice laced with concern.

"Fine, nothing happened."

Lestrade frowned and rubbed the back of his neck as if he couldn't quite believe what had just gone down. With a concerted effort, he swallowed the tirade he would have hurled at any other omega at a similar juncture. "Good, that's... good."

"Where's John?" Sherlock asked.

"He's still with the injured woman. The ambulance is on its way." Lestrade had barely got the words out before the sound of sirens echoed through the lane. "That'll be them. Go on, go to him. We'll take care of this young man here... I'll need your statements on what happened here later on. Best you come by the Yard. Two hours, okay? We'll be done here by then."

"Of course. I'll want to know what you find out," Sherlock said with a nod toward the detained omega. "And whether he's truly capable of such an act..." he added in a lower voice. He said good-bye to Lestrade and walked back up the lane to the spot where he'd left John with the injured beta.

The paramedics were just arriving from the other end, rushing to the victim who lay covered with Sherlock's coat. As soon as they took over from John to tend to her wounds, he stood up on wobbly legs. His adrenaline was all used up at this point too, and he shook out his cramped, blood-smeared hands. He turned around and saw Sherlock, a smile of relief brightening his face.

"Sherlock!" he called, and Sherlock hurried to join him.

"Are you all right?" they asked in unison, then laughed. A large amount of the tension which had accumulated in them drained away.

"Yeah, everything's fine," John said. He jerked his chin in the direction of the woman who was now being buckled onto a stretcher. "And she'll be fine in short order as well."

"I'm glad." Sherlock _was_ relieved. Without John, the pursuit would have taken quite a different turn. The omega had attacked the woman to stop him and John: he'd calculated that they would rather save her life than follow him any further. He couldn't have known that John – practical, dutiful John – would have the situation well in hand in a matter of seconds, thanks to his experience. But mostly, no one would have guessed that he would allow Sherlock – a mere omega – to take up the pursuit on his own.

The knowledge that John could keep a cool head in such a stressful situation and leave even life-threatening tasks to his omega, was downright exhilarating. Of course, it all could have ended in tragedy, but John had had faith in Sherlock; had attributed to him enough common sense to correctly assess the risk and simply let him get on with it. It was...

_Phenomenal. My alpha is phenomenal._

Sherlock closed the short distance to John and kissed him. John was caught off guard but nonetheless returned the kiss, instinctively grasping Sherlock's arms only to promptly let go again when he remembered they were covered in blood. Sherlock deepened the kiss, parting John's lips with his tongue and licking its counterpart possessively. He needed to taste his alpha, needed reassurance of their connection. He turned his head and sighed, nestling into John's neck and inhaling his alpha's scent with deep breaths as he drew their bodies closer together.

John did the same thing a few moments later, crowding into Sherlock's space and dragging his lips and nose up and down his proffered neck.

"Thank you," he murmured, looking up at Sherlock with a smile.

Sherlock pressed one more kiss onto John's lips before picking up his coat, draping it over his shoulders, and turning toward the end of the lane which led out to the street.

"Let's go. We still have a few things to sort out."

"Okay."

*

Before going to the Yard, Sherlock and John went home, washed the blood off their hands, and changed their clothing, which was somewhat worse for wear. After that, they went out for a bite to occupy themselves until it was time to give their statements.

Sherlock had been eating much less than usual over the past few days, due to his involvement in the McKenzie case – a fact which John hadn't failed to notice as well. He didn't appear outwardly upset or even concerned, but when he ordered three more dishes on top of Sherlock's order, and then proceeded to share them with Sherlock, his concern became more than obvious.

At some point, Sherlock leaned back, laughing as he cradled his full stomach. "Stop! I can't possibly cram in another bite!"

"Okay, okay," John said, putting the dumpling into his own mouth which he'd been about to drop onto Sherlock's plate. "Should we take the rest with us? This is probably enough to last us for two days..."

"And bring it with us to the Yard? Best not, John," Sherlock replied with a smile.

John leaned forward, resting his chin on one hand and regarding Sherlock closely. "That was incredible today... _You_ were incredible."

Sherlock shook his head slowly. "I'm not even certain he's really the killer. His behaviour aroused my suspicion, that's all. We'll find out more when Lestrade questions him."

"Still! The fact that you even noticed someone was watching us... and how quickly you reacted! Plus, even if this bloke doesn't turn out to be the murderer, he attacked and gravely injured that beta female – he'll have to stand charges for that alone. He was acting so suspicious anyway, he must be involved in something," John surmised.

"Did you realise he's an omega?" Sherlock asked.

John nodded. "Yes, but not until the back alley."

"And that's the point. How can we not have noticed his scent before? Not even at the crime scene? I mean, two to four hours isn't enough time for a scent to fully dissipate."

John traced the wood grain with his fingernail as he reflected. "Hm... you've got a point there. Do you think he might be an accomplice of the actual killer?"

"I don't know. In any case, he was very quick to pick up that piece of glass and knew how to use it. He didn't just randomly stab at that woman; he went straight for her neck."

"Yeah, he just barely missed her jugular..." John added.

Sherlock grunted his agreement and speared a mushroom with his fork, popped it into his mouth, and chewed pensively. He deliberately ignored the furtive smirk on John's lips.

"I'm afraid we could wrack our brains for hours over it and not get any further. The interview is definitely the next step," Sherlock said, set his fork down, and wiped his mouth on a serviette. He signalled to the waiter that they were ready to pay.

As Sherlock shrugged on his coat, he noticed some dark red speckles on the collar and sleeves. Dried blood. He scratched at them, but it didn't help.

"Sorry, that's my fault," John said when he noticed Sherlock's futile efforts. "I'll have it cleaned first thing tomorrow, all right? Where's your scarf?"

"Probably at the Yard. I used it to put pressure on the omega's wounds."

"Oh..."

"Don't worry about it. Come on, let's go."

*

It didn't take long to make their statements. Sherlock was familiar with the procedure, and John had no problem recalling all of the details. Sally Donovan had them each sign their report, stamped the documents, and then sent the two of them to Lestrade's office.

Lestrade looked terribly tired; his shift had actually ended two hours earlier, but duty-bound as he was, he didn't want to set the case aside before making sure everything was up-to-date.

When Sherlock and John entered his office, he was just finishing off a cardboard cup of cold coffee. He waved them in with his free hand. "Thanks for coming in," he said, tossing the cup into the bin next to his desk.

"We've already made our statements. How did the interview go?" Sherlock asked, taking a seat on one of the two chairs standing in front of Lestrade's desk.

"Well, Sherlock, you've got three guesses. It didn't go at all, as the omega's bonded and we haven't reached his alpha."

"Does that mean his alpha is involved in all of this too?" John asked, after taking the other seat.

"No, not necessarily. The only thing we've found out is the omega's name, and that he was acquainted with Gwendoline McKenzie. She used to give him piano lessons," Lestrade summarised.

Sherlock turned to John. "When McKenzie's omega was found, the assumption was that she'd been murdered. It only turned out later that she wasn't the primary victim: her alpha was. His death and the concomitant breaking of her bond cost McKenzie her life as well," he explained.

John nodded, appreciative of the information, and returned his attention to Lestrade. "What's the suspect's name?"

"Sebastian Moran."

A strange feeling crept over Sherlock at the sound of that name. He tried to dismiss it, but it was stubborn and wouldn't let go.

_Don't be stupid, _he scolded himself. _There are thousands of men named Sebastian... and I never even knew his last name._

_Lestrade might know. The dealer's file crossed his desk. Maybe his last name was noted somewhere in there? If only I could get access to the file from the drugs squad..._

"Sherlock?"

"What?" Sherlock started, his gaze shifting between the two alphas.

"Everything all right?" John asked.

"Yes, of course. I'm simply tired," he lied. He suppressed a yawn and stretched to lend credence to his statement. "It should be possible to get a search and seizure order now. Especially on suspicion of multiple homicides."

"Yeah, that's next on my list. Although you know how it is... Wherever a bonded omega's concerned, the alpha needs to be consulted. Our hands are tied until we reach him," Lestrade said. He pushed a small piece of paper across the desk. Sherlock picked it up, scanned it, and pocketed it unobtrusively. John took note of the odd exchange, but kept his mouth shut out of prudence.

"I see. Keep us updated. We're available anytime, if we can be of any further assistance. Come, John, let's go home." Sherlock stood up and left the administrative complex together with John.

As soon as they were on the street, John glanced up at Sherlock. "What did he give you?" he asked. Sherlock couldn't help but notice the worry and jealousy in his voice. He took out the note and flipped it over to hold it between his index and middle fingers so that John could read what was written on it.

It was the address of Sebastian Moran.

+++

tbc


	21. Chapter 21

John watched as Sherlock took his phone out of his coat pocket and entered Moran's address with one hand while with the other he hailed a passing cab.

"Notting Hill..." he murmured absently as he opened the car door, then gave John a mischievous grin. A spark of adventure twinkled in his eye. "Interested in a little outing?"

"Absolutely!" John said, returning the grin with one of equal intensity.

"After you, if you please." With a sweeping gesture, Sherlock invited John to get into the car first, then slid in after him and gave the driver the address of their destination.

_After you, if you please..._

That was certainly not a typical sentence which an omega would say to an alpha. After all, it was an alpha's place to play the part of the gallant gentleman and assume the lead in all areas of life. Instead, John had relinquished his natural role as an alpha to his omega. Sherlock had taken the lead, and John had followed.

Oddly, the distribution of roles hadn't felt wrong at any point. Just the opposite: John had sensed instinctively that Sherlock was in full control every step of the way, and not helpless in any way, shape, or form. Even when he'd dashed off after their suspect, Moran, John hadn't hesitated for a moment to leave the pursuit up to Sherlock. Each of them had taken care of their own task, and in doing so had caught a potential killer and saved the life of an injured victim.

The events of that extraordinary afternoon set John's entire organism alight. Adrenaline coursed through his bloodstream, now a little more, now a little less, giving him a natural thrill, almost a high. He hadn't felt this alive in who knew how long. Aside from the hormone-driven heats, of course.

Sherlock seemed to be in a similar state: the omega was fairly vibrating at his side, even if he appeared outwardly to be completely calm. But he couldn't fool John. The alpha not only felt Sherlock's excitement and coiled energy, he could smell it clear as day: the wild aroma of adrenaline and arousal.

John instinctively placed one hand on Sherlock's thigh, giving it a soothing squeeze when it began to bounce. Sherlock froze briefly, only to relax markedly a moment later.

"What do you think we'll find?" John asked. "Do you think his alpha will be there?"

Sherlock lifted his shoulders and made a thoughtful sound. "I don't know."

"I wonder how dangerous the alpha is."

Nonplussed, Sherlock dragged his eyes away from the window and looked at John in confusion. "Whatever makes you think the alpha might be dangerous?"

"I don't know." John shrugged in turn and bit down on his lower lip. He wanted to choose his next words with care, but didn't know how to put it so that it didn't sound offensive. It probably wasn't possible. "You don't think the omega is solely responsible for all these horrific acts, do you?"

"Ah. You think because he's 'just' an omega, he's not capable of something like this."

John sighed and shook his head, withdrawing his hand. Of course he'd rubbed Sherlock the wrong way with his question.

"No, that's not at all what I mean. It's simply..."

"Yes?" Sherlock hissed.

"It would be a first, yeah? I can't think of a single omega who's committed murder on their own initiative. Whenever an omega's been implicated in a crime like this, it's been because their alpha was the driving force. Bonnie and Clyde? The moors murderers in Manchester? The Wests and their torture chamber? I'm not saying the omegas were innocent to any degree at all, but there was always an alpha pulling the strings."

"Are you certain the alphas weren't simply trying to protect their omegas by accepting the lion's share of the blame for themselves? Wouldn't you also try to shield me, purely on instinct?" Sherlock asked sharply.

Caught out, John snorted dryly. "Could be..." He turned his head to escape Sherlock's penetrating glare, instead pretending intense interest in the traffic passing through London's streets. "Although you proved today that you can get by rather well on your own."

"Oh." The surprise was clearly audible in Sherlock's voice. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," John said smugly, and immediately felt a little less tense. "You were really fantastic. Simply phenomenal."

"You already said something along those lines..."

John returned his gaze to Sherlock, who had lowered his head and was staring bashfully at his hands folded in his lap. John hesitated for the space of two or three heartbeats, then grasped Sherlock's chin between his index finger and thumb to tilt it upwards so he could see his face. With a lopsided grin, he stroked Sherlock's cheek, which had flushed pale red.

"Because it's the truth. So please cut me some slack if I don't automatically see in every omega what I see in you, all right?"

"What do you see?"

"Something incredibly special." John resisted the urge to place a kiss on Sherlock's tense lips, instead caressing his cheek once more before withdrawing and sinking back into his seat.

"So," John said, his interest piqued. "What is the motive for the killings supposed to be? Leaving aside the question of whether the killer is working alone or with an accomplice."

Sherlock sighed, leaned his head back against the headrest, and closed his eyes. "I honestly have no idea. I can't see any connections other than the obvious. But why... What is motivating the killer? I don't know. Not yet..."

It was clear just from looking at Sherlock how difficult it was for him to made that admission. John knew how proud Sherlock was of his analytical mind. The fact that he couldn't recognise any patterns was akin to defeat for him. Which was complete nonsense, of course. But Sherlock was not only proud, he was also terribly stubborn. Both character traits which prevented him from accepting any comforting words from John. And yet it made John happy to be privy to this part of Sherlock's life – even if the reason for it was horrible. With that knowledge, he settled for giving Sherlock's thigh an encouraging pat.

The taxi slowed down and finally stopped at the kerb in front of a three-storey building. While Sherlock paid their fare, John climbed out of the car and looked around, curious as to what he would find. They were in a posh area of Notting Hill, where the wealth of the residents was on ostentatious display. Even so, the house at the address they had been given still managed to distinguish itself from its surroundings. It was a detached home, unlike the usual terraced character of the neighbourhood, and surrounded by a generously sized garden. The white painted window frames, stucco decorations, and columned elements created a stark contrast to the pale grey whitewashed facade. A tall fence kept out uninvited guests, and John spotted a camera in front of the main gate.

He casually strolled up to it, letting his gaze wander over the buzzer and mailbox as if in passing while he pretended to be waiting for Sherlock. He walked back over to him when Sherlock closed the taxi door, placed one hand on his lower back, and leaned in to whisper to him.

"There's no name on the bell or the mailbox."

Sherlock crowded in closer to John and nodded. "As expected. Those in possession of this much wealth prefer to live anonymously and not be disturbed."

"Do you think the alpha is a celebrity?"

"Hm... no, I don't believe so. The garden is too visible from the street, despite the fence. Maybe a business tycoon. Or someone in politics. I don't know yet. Come, John. Let's have a look around."

They strolled together down the street, to all appearances nothing more than an ordinary couple out for a walk. One would have to look much closer to notice Sherlock's eyes alertly scanning the parts of the property flashing between the fence posts. There wasn't much to find along the side, but when they rounded the next corner and arrived at the back of the tract, they found an expansive garden, much larger than it had appeared from the front.

A wide, covered patio was visible at the back of the house, from which three stone steps descended into the garden. Colourful flowerbeds were scattered as if at random around the meticulously trimmed lawn, displaying the mark of a highly talented gardener. Small oases of calm could be found dotted about in the form of a stone bench or a shade-giving tree, a small pavilion or a garden swing beside a burbling water feature. To the right side of the fence stood a solidly built, stone masonry gardening shed.

John whistled appreciatively through his teeth. "Pretty impressive..."

"Yes," Sherlock agreed, tilting his head to one side in thought. "Moran seems rather out of place here, wouldn't you say?"

"Hmhm, you're right. Are you sure we're at the right – " John broke off when the glass patio door opened and two women and a man stepped outside. They carried a tray of dishes over to an elegant seating arrangement and began to distribute plates, glasses, and silverware.

The wind was in their favour, and John could make out the faint, sweet scent emanating from the group. They were all omegas. John inhaled sharply in surprise, and Sherlock appeared to be sniffing intently as well.

"A friendly sit-down dinner?" John whispered.

"Possibly," Sherlock replied, just as softly. "But then one of them should be the omega of the house."

"Yeah, so?"

"Our suspect would be living here if he's bonded to the alpha. Wouldn't he then also be 'the omega of the house'? After all, this is his registered residence."

John nodded his understanding. "Maybe he's separated from the alpha, and the alpha has bonded with another omega? It's rare but it happens, right?"

"Hm," was all Sherlock said, shrugging indecisively.

Another cloud of fragrance wafted over to them, making John inhale deeply. _Oh..._ one of the omegas – presumably the most petite one, standing barefoot in the grass filling glasses with white wine, her hip-long blonde hair gently swirling in the evening breeze – was about to go into heat. It was a simple matter to pinpoint her condition from the composition of her scent. John pressed his tongue against the roof of his mouth and swallowed hard.

Sherlock also seemed to have taken note of the indicators. He stiffened markedly and turned away. "Come. There's nothing for us to do here anyway."

John smirked and followed his omega as he made haste to exit; he had to lengthen his stride himself in order to keep up.

"Wait, Sherlock!" he called as soon as they were out of hearing range. He grinned as he grabbed Sherlock's arm to stop his getaway. "You don't have to worry, all right?"

"What should I have to worry about?" Sherlock hissed, trying to shake John off.

"Oh, I don't know... another omega turning my head and diverting my attentions, perhaps?"

"That's ridiculous!"

"Then there's no problem." John stepped in closer to Sherlock and pressed his nose into Sherlock's neck. He took a deep breath and sighed contentedly. "No one smells as delicious as you anyway." He winked and pulled away. Sherlock stared at him, his mouth hanging open. John set out for the next corner. "Coming?"

*

By the time they returned to the street at the front of the estate, Sherlock seemed to have collected himself once more. He surprised John by taking his hand and pulling him along excitedly. His entire bearing had changed, oddly enough, and he now seemed suddenly much younger, more naïve, and flighty.

"What the he – " John started to say, only to be cut off with a hissed "Sssshh!" from Sherlock. He stopped in front of the neighbouring house, which a middle-aged woman was just stepping out of in order to walk her – John had to blink three or four times before he could identify the woman's pet – hairless cat on a lead.

"Ma'am, ma'am. Excuse us please!"

Sherlock placed himself directly in the woman's path and gave her such a sickly sweet, fake smile that it almost made John's teeth hurt. No way the lady was going to buy the charade. But against all expectations, the beta returned Sherlock's smile as he crouched down and started to pet the strange animal with great enthusiasm.

"What a darling little pup. Is it a chihuahua?"

"Oh no, dear," the woman laughed indulgently. "She's a purebred Canadian Sphynx. A hairless cat."

"A _hairless cat_," Sherlock sighed, enchanted. "John, we simply must get one for ourselves."

"Er..."

Sherlock stood up again, making a grand show of brushing nonexistent dust from his trousers, and started to engage the woman in a conversation about this and that.

Nonplussed, John stood by and examined Sherlock's profile, trying to make sense of the bizarre situation. At some point, Sherlock pointed at the house behind them.

"… at any rate, we're scouting around for a new residence, and this one would be simply marvellous."

The woman offered a mild smile. "I'm afraid that property would be slightly out of your price range, don't you think, dear? All the same, I don't think Lord Moran would ever be willing to sell."

"_Lord_ Moran?"

The woman nodded to confirm the fact, leaning in as if sharing a secret. "A genuine peer of the realm. One of those old-money families, but also rather old-fashioned values, if you ask me."

Sherlock's innocent smile broadened as he gave the woman an expectant look. "Really?"

The beta looked around suspiciously and lowered her voice. "He's one of those polybonders and has at least four omegas. And even so, he's scarcely home, always travelling for work. It's just the omegas who are always there."

Sherlock looked shocked, and John was fairly certain it wasn't just for show. He decided to step in to prevent the situation from taking an even stranger turn, and cleared his throat loudly.

"And he lives with all those omegas under one roof? That's very... interesting. I'm surprised there isn't any friction."

"Oh, you know... well, I don't like to gossip and one isn't aware of everything that goes on. But I do get the sense that there's a spot of trouble now and then. One of the boys in particular, Sebastian, doesn't seem all that pleased with the situation. And who can blame him? He was the first omega Lord Moran bonded with. The poor boy was almost still a child, just barely of age. And then one omega after another's been added year after year. Sodom and Gomorrah, I say. At any rate, I need to be pressing on. My Sekhmet is already anxious to be taking care of her business."

The woman tugged at her cat's lead and gave John and Sherlock a friendly smile. "Good-bye. Maybe I'll be seeing you around the neighbourhood again. Come, darling."

"Bye," John and Sherlock murmured simultaneously, then turned to each other and gaped in disbelief.

"Polybond? Wow..."

*

Later that evening, after sitting down together for a dinner that John had cooked and following several hectic but fruitless phone calls to DI Lestrade, Sherlock emerged from his bedroom on one more call.

"Yes. Yes, I know. I _know_. You really don't need to keep repeating yourself. I understood you the first time. Yes. Yes. _Yes! _I'll be there. See you tomorrow."

He forcibly pushed the symbol to end the call and hurled the phone onto his leather armchair with an irritated sigh.

"Everything all right?" John inquired as he dried his hands on a tea towel and tossed it over his shoulder.

Of course his omega had made him do all the dishes himself, but that came as no surprise to John anymore, nor was it something that even bothered him.

Sherlock grumbled vaguely and threw himself melodramatically onto the couch. He rolled onto his side so that his nose was all but pressed up against the seat back, drew his legs in, and pulled his dressing gown tightly around his body.

John smirked as he settled on the arm of the sofa with one arse cheek and regarded his pouting omega.

"Was that Greg?"

"Who?"

John shook his head indulgently, although he was secretly pleased that Sherlock didn't seem to be able to remember the alpha's name. Or didn't want to. It might simply be a passive-aggressive act which was perfectly in character for Sherlock. He certainly wasn't doing it subconsciously to make John happy. And yet it gave John a small sense of victory, even though he knew how inane such behaviour was.

"Lestrade. Anything new on the case?"

The dark curls rustled as he shook his head, and John needed to suppress the urge to bury his fingers in them and card through. Or maybe that's exactly what he should do? His omega was clearly under stress, and it would definitely calm him down if he... But before John could turn the thought into action, Sherlock flopped onto his back and blinked up at John.

"It was Anthea."

"Your sister-in-law? What did she want?"

"Family do. Tomorrow."

"Oh... and?"

"I have to go. It's her birthday. And... I wanted to ask... if you..." Sherlock crossed his arms and sighed. "Would you..."

"Yes?" A smile tugged at the corners of John's mouth, but he pushed it aside, certain that Sherlock would misinterpret the grin as making fun of him.

"The handbook says we should get to know each other's families..."

"Hmhm," John agreed. "That we should."

He couldn't hold in the smile any longer: he was too taken in by Sherlock's inner struggle to formulate the question John knew perfectly well his omega wanted to pose. He gave in to his previous desire and moved one errant curl off Sherlock's forehead, nudged it back onto his temple, and let his fingers graze through Sherlock's hair. Sherlock closed his eyes and sighed.

"What do you want to ask?" John said gently.

"Would you go with me?"

John scraped his fingernails across Sherlock's scalp one last time, then withdrew his hand and stood up.

"It would be my honour."

*

The next day, John followed Sherlock out of the taxi. He held a bouquet of lilies in one hand – Anthea's favourite flower, according to Sherlock. His omega hadn't quite understood why John felt it appropriate to bring another omega flowers – especially as he'd already organised a book for a present – but John had insisted on having his way.

He looked around at the surroundings. Nothing had changed since his last visit to Kensington; not even the nervous tension that overcame him every time he stood in front of this house. Even if he didn't want to admit it to himself, all the signs were clear: his increased heart rate, the sweat on the back of his neck, and his fingers clamped in a death grip on the damp brown paper in which the flowers were wrapped.

Sherlock also seemed tense. His back was ramrod straight and his knuckles bone-white from clenching the colourfully wrapped package of clay he'd brought as an offering for Archie.

John pushed aside his own anxiety and gave himself a mental kick. His main priority was his omega's wellbeing. It was important to exude a sense of strength for Sherlock's benefit and provide a safe haven for him.

"Wait!" John held Sherlock back by the arm before he started up the steps to the door. "Are you nervous?"

Sherlock gave John a suspicious look. "What? No. Why? What makes you think that?"

John shrugged. "Because I'm nervous?"

"Oh." Some of Sherlock's tension seemed to drain away. "Why would you be nervous?"

"Well, I'm probably not exactly what your family wanted for you. I don't come from a classy family, I'm an army veteran, not wealthy... our bond is unconventional."

"You're certainly right about that." A grin spread across Sherlock's face. "About everything."

John burst out laughing. "Ta for that. You do have a way of making people feel better."

Sherlock smirked as he pulled his arm away and turned to go up the stairs. Once he'd reached the top and rung the bell, he turned his head and winked at John over his shoulder. "Or maybe you're exactly what _I_ secretly wanted all along."

_Oh..._

"Coming?"

John's heart rate increased for five or six beats as an invisible weight fell from his shoulders. He felt several kilograms lighter as he hurried up the steps after Sherlock.

*

The interior of the Holmes's posh town house smelled almost exactly the same as it had five years ago. The lord of the manor's scent was instantly recognisable, while the omega's scent was somewhat softer and lighter. On top of that, there was also a new scent of baby powder, innocence, and curiosity.

Following a cool exchange of greetings and congratulations, Anthea Holmes led John and Sherlock into the generously proportioned living room. If she was in any way surprised by John's presence, she didn't show it. Little Archie sat on the floor, cheerfully tearing discarded wrapping paper into tiny pieces.

As soon as he saw Sherlock, he threw his little arms into the air and squealed excitedly. "S'lock. Up!"

"Hello, little one," Sherlock said with more tenderness in his voice than John had ever heard from him. "I've missed you."

John's heart squeezed and his stomach did some kind of complicated flip as Sherlock crouched down, lifted the child into his arms, and bumped his nose against Archie's neck.

Standing beside John, Anthea said, "He's always been mad for him," in a strangely bored tone of voice, without specifying whether she was referring to Sherlock or Archie. "Thanks for the flowers. They're quite lovely."

"Erm, my pleasure..." John replied as he handed the bouquet of pink and white lilies over to Anthea so she could put them in a vase.

John surreptitiously wiped his damp hand on his jeans and looked around. The room was tastefully appointed, and yet it was missing some kind of personal, intimate touch. Everything appeared cold and reserved. Just like its inhabitants. The cheerfully babbling infant – currently reaching for Sherlock's curls – was the only thing that seemed out of place. As did Sherlock. John could not for the life of him imagine how such an impulsive, passionate person had lived here for so long.

After coffee, cake, and superficial small talk, Sherlock sat down on the floor with Archie and started to explain the present he'd brought for him.

"...you can already practice using your senses with this clay at your age, Archie. And then maybe you won't end up such an unimaginative oaf as your father..."

Smirking, John tore his eyes away from Sherlock to look at Anthea, who was sitting across from him.

"Where is he anyway? Your al – Sherlock's brother?

"Yes, where is he? Shouldn't he at least be here on your birthday?" Sherlock asked sourly.

Anthea shrugged disinterestedly, poured fresh coffee into her and John's cups, and set another piece of cake onto his plate.

"His meeting took longer than expected. He'll be here later."

"His meeting, right!" Sherlock turned his back in a huff and took a lump of blue clay out of the container and put it into Archie's hand.

It looked like Anthea had to bite back an additional comment, instead directing her laser-sharp gaze onto John. "I must say, I'm surprised to see you again, Dr Watson."

"John, please."

"John..." She let his name roll around on her tongue as if it had a peculiar aftertaste. "Does this mean you and my brother-in-law are now ready to lead a traditional alpha-omega relationship?"

John could clearly feel Sherlock's tension mount even across the space of the room. They hadn't spoken about how they would proceed if talk turned to their relationship. A thoughtless omission, it now appeared.

"Well..." John cleared his throat, feeling ill at ease. "I don't know what difference the traditional form of a relationship makes, but we've found that we... erm... Sherlock?"

John turned to his omega, seeking some assistance, but he had his back turned and was directing all of his attention toward his nephew.

_Bastard!_

Fortunately, Anthea didn't press the issue, instead taking a sip from her cup. John thought he caught a hint of a smug smile hidden behind the porcelain.

"I never would have thought Sherlock would be so good with kids," John said to redirect the conversation to another topic.

"He isn't usually. But Archie and he have been bosom buddies from the first moment on. He was a great help to me during Archie's birth. Did you know that? How about you, John? Have you never wanted children?"

"Oh, heavens no. Although I did almost become a father once."

Out of the corner of his eye, John saw Sherlock's back stiffen and the motions of his game with Archie slowed down.

_Fuck,_ John thought to himself. He'd never wanted Sherlock to find out about that. And now thanks to his mindless comment he was forced to relate the entire story, if he didn't want Sherlock to think he had wanted to have a child with someone else. Well, he had wanted to, but not like that...

"Is that so?" Anthea inquired with an unmistakeable chill in her tone.

"Yes, but certainly not the way you think. One of my army buddies, my closest friend in Afghanistan, wanted a child. As a female alpha, she couldn't fertilise her omega, so they asked me. I was naïve enough to say yes, just to help the two of them out."

John had no intention of going into detail and saying how far he would have gone if it hadn't been for... for... _soul bonding, what humbug..._

"Fortunately, it never got that far. Something... erm... got in the way... Well, in any event. In the end, it turned out that Cilia, the omega, preferred artificial insemination, and now they're the proud parents of a healthy boy."

Sherlock had turned around as John spoke, pinning him with his gaze.

"What do you mean, 'got in the way'?"

John gestured vaguely with his hand. Of course he wasn't going to get out of it that easily.

"I couldn't, okay? I felt sick all of a sudden, and I... no idea. It felt as if someone were tromping around in my intestines and pulling me away. It was... weird. But for the best in the end. No one was feeling very comfortable with the situation, and – "

John broke off when he saw how pale Sherlock was all of a sudden. Anthea was also displaying signs of something like an emotion, covering her mouth with one hand and widening her eyes.

"A soul bond," she whispered breathlessly.

John looked over at Sherlock for some help, but he had lowered his head and was plucking nervously at a piece of clay. Just as John was about to launch into his usual protest about soul bonds, the front door closed and footsteps approached the living room.

Sherlock immediately stood up, smoothed out his clothes, and crossed his arms. Anthea also got up from her chair and watched the door expectantly. Just a few moments later, Mycroft Holmes stepped into the room.

John lifted his shoulders as if the temperature had suddenly dropped several degrees, but stood as well as Mycroft walked over to him and held out a hand.

"Dr Watson," Mycroft greeted him in a blasé tone of voice.

"Mr Holmes..." John responded automatically.

Next Mycroft went to Anthea and ghosted a kiss in the air over her hair. Out of the corner of his eye, John caught a glimpse of the omega secretively sniffing the air near Mycroft's neck, but the alpha stepped aside so quickly that the moment lasted no longer than a heartbeat. Nothing like the scenting he and Sherlock had engaged in that morning. John suddenly appreciated the ritual which they now performed regularly that much more.

Mycroft nodded at Sherlock, then went to his son.

"Archibald," he greeted the child, running his hand once through the baby's reddish-brown curls before taking a seat at the table and allowing Anthea to pour him a cup of coffee.

Sherlock also returned to his chair, scooting closer to John, although he was likely unaware of doing so. His discomfiture was obvious, and John placed one hand on Sherlock's thigh underneath the table, rubbing it soothingly. If any of the others noticed the gesture, they didn't say anything.

After several minutes, the uncomfortable silence at the table was interrupted by Archie, who began to cry softly. John couldn't say whether the baby had noticed the frosty atmosphere in the room, but he couldn't blame him if so.

Mycroft cleared his throat and gave Anthea a pointed look; she promptly stood and lifted Archie up from the floor.

"I'll go put him down for a bit. He's overdue for his nap." With those words, she left the room and closed the door behind herself.

John was on his fourth cup of coffee by now, and just wondering whether the amount of caffeine he'd ingested would make it hard to sleep that night, when Sherlock spoke up.

"So, Mycroft. How was your meeting?"

"Taxing, but that's politics for you."

"Hm... and I could have sworn you'd simply barricaded yourself in your elitist alpha shack." The repugnance was clearly audible in Sherlock's tone.

"The Diogenes Club is not an elitist alpha shack, Sherlock," Mycroft replied mildly, continuing to sip his coffee unperturbed.

"Oh, it's not? How many omegas are members then?"

"Sherlock..."

"And how many betas who aren't employees?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes in annoyance and set the porcelain cup down on its saucer with a light clink. John couldn't say why, but the elder Holmes had the air of having been caught red-handed.

"Thought so," Sherlock said smugly. "And while we're on the subject – does the name Lord Moran mean anything to you?"

"Lord Augustus Moran the third? Of course that means something to me."

"What can you tell me about him?"

"Absolutely nothing, Sherlock. What's come over you to think of asking me a question like that?"

Unimpressed by Mycroft's defensive attitude, Sherlock leaned forward and fixed his brother with a stare. "He's a polybonder; did you know that?"

Mycroft Holmes's eyebrow lifted for a fraction of a second before the alpha appeared to regain control over himself. "No, I was not aware of that."

"You're lying," Sherlock growled and crossed his arms.

The brothers glared at each other, neither willing to relinquish even the slightest bit of ground. The air in the room was so thick that John was certain it could be cut with a knife. Surprisingly, it was the alpha who lowered his gaze in the end.

"There may possibly be rumours to that effect. The Diogenes Club is not known for spreading gossip about the details of its members' personal lives. So, what do you wish to know?"

"Who is Lord Moran? What does he do?"

Mycroft shrugged vaguely. "He's in charge of foreign aid at the ministry, and frequently travels overseas. He comes from a long line of politically active titled alphas. The last one in his family. He has no progeny that I'm aware of. I really can't tell you anything more than that. Why are you so interested anyway?"

"One of his omegas is most likely involved in a series of murders."

The statement made Mycroft burst out in peals of laughter. He threw his head back and practically quivered at the hilarity of it all.

"You can't possibly be serious?" he asked once he'd collected himself and wiped his damp eyes. "I should instruct DI Lestrade to only involve you in cases where your imagination can't get the better of you. Or perhaps best he not involve you at all anymore."

John and Mycroft both flinched when Sherlock slammed his fist down on the table, making the chinaware clatter.

"You will do no such thing!"

The eruption only caused Mycroft to laugh some more. He turned to John and tugged absently at his necktie to loosen it.

"Dr Watson, would you please restrain your omega?"

John could virtually feel Sherlock's body go completely stiff next to him. The scent rolling off him was a combination of fury, distress, and incredulity. John slowly pushed his chair back and stood up. He laid one hand on Sherlock's shoulder and gave Mycroft a death glare.

"I wouldn't dream of it, Mr Holmes."

Mycroft leaned back in his chair and looked up at John with a lopsided grin. "I'm surprised, Dr Watson. I wouldn't have thought you would tolerate my brother's obstreperous behaviour now that you've moved in and he finally has an alpha at his side."

"With all due respect, sir, I don't get the impression that you had Sherlock any better under control when you were the alpha responsible for him." Sherlock collapsed just a little under John's grip, and notes of resignation and disappointment joined his scent composition at John's words. John hastened to add, so as not to give a false impression: "And I don't want to control Sherlock anyway. There's nothing to tolerate either. Sherlock is perfect just as he is, and I'll be damned if I try and force him into a role he despises and which doesn't suit his character."

"Oh..." Sherlock released the air in his lungs with an audible sound, and relaxed noticeably. John gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze until Sherlock looked up and returned his encouraging smile.

"I'd like to leave now, John."

"Of course, Sherlock. Ready when you are."

+++

tbc


	22. Chapter 22

Sherlock followed John into the house's front hall, accepting the form-fitting, tailored jacket which John handed him. He would have greatly preferred the protective mantle of the Belstaff just then, but the heavy woollen coat had been at the cleaners since that morning to deal with the stubborn blood stains. He wouldn't get it back for a couple of days, but it would have been too warm for that early summer day anyway.

Sherlock would have liked to say goodbye to Archie, as there was no telling when they would see each other again. But Mycroft's attitude coupled with the frosty atmosphere which had permeated the entire afternoon only fortified his desire to get out of there as quickly as possible.

Anthea, who had brought the whimpering baby up to his room and calmed him in the meantime, now entered the hall and glanced back and forth between Sherlock and John. The initial surprise faded from her face, to be replaced by the cool resignation which Sherlock was all too familiar with seeing from her. She had already caught on to the reason for their hasty departure, and accepted it without comment, just as she accepted everything else without complaint.

"Thank you for the invitation," John said when he noticed her standing there.

The omega woman nodded to him, then turned her pointed gaze on Sherlock as if trying to force him to say something. But Sherlock had lost any interest on interacting with members of his family. He knew that wasn't fair to Anthea – she couldn't do anything about Mycroft's behaviour, and it was her birthday after all – but the fact that she allowed herself to be treated that way without standing up for herself had always driven Sherlock up the wall.

He pushed past John out of the house, hurried down the short set of steps onto the pavement, and turned right to head directly for the main road, knowing it would be easier to find a taxi there. John caught up to him just moments later, not making any mention of either Sherlock's sudden silence nor the brisk pace he was setting.

It wasn't until they were sitting in a taxi on the way back to Baker Street that Sherlock dared to let his shoulders droop and exhaled wearily. He rested one elbow on the side door frame and rubbed his eyes with his thumb and index finger.

He shouldn't have been surprised, Sherlock thought to himself as he let his gaze wander over the sights of the city passing rapidly by. He and Mycroft had always had an eye out for weak spots in the other's defences, and exploited them ruthlessly once they'd found one. It was as if they each got some perverse pleasure out of seeing the other brother suffer.

"I know you told me you didn't get along with Mycroft, but I didn't really understand why until today. Is it always like that between you two?" John asked in a calm voice with just a hint of curiosity.

Sherlock looked over at his alpha and considered how best to respond. Finally, he nodded once and rubbed his bottom lip pensively.

"It's... complicated," he said after a while.

"You needn't go into it if you don't want to," John assured him. "But if you do, I'm here," he added with a smile.

Sherlock maintained eye contact a little longer before nodding again and looking back out the window. Being annoyed at Mycroft was neither new nor uncommon for Sherlock. However, the reasons behind the whole situation were so multifaceted and lay so far back that Sherlock had no idea what might emerge in the light of day if he ever started to scratch at the surface.

Back at the flat on Baker Street, Sherlock took off his jacket and hung it on the row of hooks next to the front door. He unbuttoned his cuffs, rolled up his sleeves, and ruffled the curls on the back of his head with both hands, as if he were trying to shake out the thoughts that had taken root in his brain.

"Are you hungry? I definitely had too much cake... but you barely touched yours," John said, resuming the thread of their conversation.

Sherlock turned to him, wanting to say something, but pressed his lips together instead and shook his head wearily. He could virtually feel the unspoken questions between them as a physical manifestation, but didn't know whether he was prepared to have that particular conversation. The fact that John had nearly become a father just a couple of years ago was information that Sherlock didn't know how to deal with. Although he'd explained he would only have been the sperm donor for a female alpha-omega couple, Sherlock didn't like the fact that he'd used the term 'father' one bit.

Did John perhaps want a family with children after all, despite the fact that he'd maintained something quite different both at their first meeting and today with Anthea? Had his opinion toward the topic changed over the past few years?

Sherlock wasn't sure he wanted to hear the answer to that question. They'd promised each other that they would try to make this bond work. But if it now developed that John wanted children and Sherlock couldn't – or wouldn't – provide that, it might put an end to things once and for all. And thinking about all _that_ would entail just now was simply too much; after all, he'd only recently accepted how much easier life with John would be than without him.

Beyond that, Sherlock had only discovered within the past few hours that John really had sensed all of his anger and despair when Sherlock had wanted to stop him from having relations with that omega female through the power of his thoughts alone. Sherlock had been too surprised to say anything at the time when he'd heard the account, but now that his initial shock had waned, he wanted to know more. Was it really possible that John sensed Sherlock's emotions the same way that Sherlock did John's?

Did they really have... a _soul bond?_

Sherlock kicked himself for being so idiotic and snorted with derision. That myth was simply too fantastical to be true. It was probably all just some huge coincidence, and John was simply wracked with guilt because he'd wanted to impregnate another alpha's omega. Maybe he was just trying to feel Sherlock out and see how he would react to the soul bond theory. After all, it wouldn't be the first time John accused him of being no better than any other omega.

On the other hand, John had stood up for Sherlock today, putting Mycroft in his place, and declaring that Sherlock was 'perfect just as he is.' Everything was so confusing, and Sherlock had no idea what to make of it all. He needed more time to let things sink in, or – even better – some distraction to get his mind off this whole mess.

"Is everything all right?" John asked, his voice laced with concern and his attitude one of watchful vigilance.

"Yes. Yes, of course. I was just wondering how much progress Lestrade has made with the case. I'll send him a text," Sherlock replied and headed for his room. Once inside, he closed the door quietly behind himself.

He didn't come back out for the rest of the day.

*

On Sunday morning, Sherlock emerged from his room following a nearly sleepless night and dragged himself into the kitchen. He dumped the dregs from the coffee pot on the kitchen table into a cup, only to discover to his disappointment that the contents were cold. He swallowed down the scant few sips anyway, grimacing at the bitter taste.

"How about some tea?" John said from the living room. He looked back over his shoulder at Sherlock from where he sat in the red upholstered armchair with the Sunday paper held open in his hands. A warm smile flickered at the corners of his mouth. He couldn't have been up for long, as he was still wearing his pyjama bottoms and the t-shirt he usually slept in. His short hair was uncombed, and stuck out stubbornly on one side.

Sherlock grunted his assent, yawned expansively, and picked up the kettle to fill it.

John came into the kitchen and rinsed out the coffee pot, took two clean cups out of the cupboard, and hung tea bags over the sides.

"Sleep well?"

Sherlock made a negative sound and stepped closer to John. He placed one hand on John's bicep and leaned down to nuzzle his alpha's neck so he could inhale the soothing scent there – just as they'd done several times now over the past few days. John copied him, rubbing his face into the crook of Sherlock's neck while running one hand timidly through the curls at his nape.

They moved apart when the kettle turned off with a click. John filled their cups and nudged one in Sherlock's direction.

"Did Lestrade have anything to report yesterday?" he asked.

"Not much. I told him about the polybond, and that one of the omegas is about to go into heat. Lord Moran is returning from his trip today, and he'll be brought in for questioning. They'll keep him and Sebastian apart over the weekend so they can't collude. Their hope may be that the omega will soften up and contribute something that leads toward a resolution of the case," Sherlock explained briefly.

"That makes sense..."

"Does it though? According to the police records, Lord Moran was already out of the country when the last alpha was killed. That means Sebastian is either working with another alpha, or really is acting on his own. But no one seems to believe that. If you ask me, Sebastian should be interviewed by another omega, not by an alpha who will absolve him of any responsibility from the start!"

"Hm... Wait, you don't mean you, do you?" John said.

"Why not? I believe he'd be more forthcoming to another omega than an alpha or a beta. And I know all the ins and outs of the case. You could have a bit more confidence in me, John!"

John sighed, ran his hands through his hair, and pinched the bridge of his nose before speaking again. "I'm sure you're right that Sebastian would be more open with another omega. But don't forget he might well have eight lives on his conscience, Sherlock. Including two omegas."

"I know. But we'll both be at the Yard, surrounded by dozens of alphas and betas. It's highly unlikely that he'd be in any position to attack me, or even make the attempt. You weren't there when I confronted him in the lane, but he was... rather fascinated to find himself facing down another omega. Yes, he did try to overpower me – " Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock saw John stiffen. " – but it was child's play to put him out of commission."

"You... didn't tell me that..." John said, clenching and unclenching his left fist several times.

Sherlock shrugged. "What for, it all ended well," he said, examining John's tense expression. The way his lips were pressed together and his eyes reflecting a mixture of worry and annoyance indicated that further opposition was in the offing. Sherlock prepared himself for the argument that was sure to ensue while stirring milk and sugar into his cup with outward calm.

"Have you ever participated in a police interview before?"

Sherlock looked up, somewhat nonplussed, trying to discern which tactic John was using to attack his defences. "Erm... yes. Albeit only as an observer. Lestrade wanted me to analyse the body language of the suspect at the time and tip him off to any lies."

"What about interrogation techniques? I mean... there are quite a few, aren't there? Are you familiar with them?" John went on.

Sherlock drew his brows together. "Not specifically. I've done some reading on manipulation techniques that are used during interrogations, but I've never applied them myself," he admitted with a growing sense of unease.

John nodded thoughtfully. "Greg probably won't want you to speak to the omega alone because an improperly conducted interview could end up leading to a false confession. A good solicitor for the defence could use that to ensure that the confession gets thrown out because you don't work for the Yard in any official capacity – and that would put the entire investigation at risk."

When he saw Sherlock's expression shift from mulish to angry, John raised his hands in a conciliatory gesture. "Now don't take it the wrong way. I absolutely believe you're capable of conducting an interview. But if anything goes wrong and the killer gets off because of it, that won't do anyone any good."

"I know that," Sherlock gritted out from between clenched teeth. As little as he wanted to admit it, John was right. Sherlock didn't want to get in the way of the case being solved by elbowing his way into the limelight. At the same time, he was convinced that he could do more as an omega than Lestrade or Donovan, even if they were both relatively sympathetic toward omegas.

But it was true – he didn't have an official position at Scotland Yard, and if push came to shove, the law wouldn't be on his side if he stuck his nose too far into the proceedings. Despite all that, he still wanted to be involved as closely as possible on this case, and to support the team as much as he could.

"I'll get Lestrade's opinion," Sherlock said, and left the kitchen with determined strides.

*

The morning and midday passed without DI Lestrade responding to Sherlock's texts. Sherlock had showered and dressed in a hurry that morning so as not to leave his phone out of sight for too long, and ever since had been pacing obsessively around the living room at 221B. Yet the phone remained silent.

John had also taken a seat in the living room and tried to get some reading in, but had set the book aside after not too long and was now aimlessly surfing the internet to distract himself from Sherlock's nervous energy.

"Moran's plane landed over two hours ago. They must have informed him of the situation by now," Sherlock said, glaring at the phone on his desk with heated impatience.

"Maybe something came up," John murmured absently. "Delayed landing, problems with his luggage... maybe he even missed his flight."

"Not helping, John!"

John looked up and twisted his lips. "Sorry, but it's entirely possible. Although I'm sure Greg would have let you know if anything like that had happened. Isn't there anyone else at the Yard you could ask what's going on?"

It was worth a try. Sherlock picked up his phone and entered Sergeant Donovan's number. It rang six times before she finally answered.

"You couldn't have picked a worse time to call, Sherlock."

"Why? What's going on?"

Donovan sighed with annoyance. Sherlock heard several voices speaking over each other excitedly but couldn't make any sense of the tumult.

"A patrol car escorted Lord Moran from the aeroport to his house, where the rest of the team was waiting with search warrant. It turns out that five other omegas live at the residence along with Sebastian, and they're all bonded to Moran. One of them is... in heat, and not all of the officers had activated their scent blockers..."

_Oh no..._

"What... what happened?" Sherlock asked. A sense of unease coalesced in his gut, making his stomach cramp.

Donovan sighed again. "We're still trying to get the situation under control. Hopkins has been tranqued now, but his rampage set off some sort of chain reaction. Two more of our alphas went off even with active scent blockers."

"How is that even possible?!" Sherlock cried, aghast. His eyes darted to John, who was watching him closely, trying to understand what Donovan was saying.

"That isn't even the worst of it. Lord Moran went completely bonkers and attacked Hopkins first, then Dimmock and Carter... Hopkins's right arm is broken, and the other two got away with black eyes and a few scrapes. Two other officers were slightly injured when they tried to separate the alphas. Lord Moran has barricaded himself in his house with his omegas. It's not clear whether the omega in heat was also wounded..."

Sherlock rubbed his eyes as he listened to the report, pressing his teeth together so hard that his jaw hurt. He startled when he felt John's hand at the small of his back.

"What's happened?" John whispered soft enough that it wouldn't be heard over the line. Sherlock raised one finger to signal that John should wait a moment.

"What about Lestrade? Is he there?"

"No, but he's on the way. The whole thing is a huge scandal, and reporters have started to turn up. I'm afraid we're going to have a disciplinary tribunal on our backs; I mean, an alpha absolutely has the right to protect their omega during a heat. Our search warrant may ameliorate things a little, but..." Donovan left her statement unfinished and turned to a reporter who had approached. "No comment. I said _no comment!"_

After a few seconds, she remembered that she still had Sherlock on the line. "Sherlock? Lestrade's just arrived. I'll tell him to get in touch with you later." And with those words, she ended the call.

Sherlock turned his phone off and set it back down on the desk.

"A couple of alphas from the Yard attacked the omega female in heat. Lord Moran defended her and barricaded himself in his house with her," he succinctly summarised things for John.

"Fuck..."

He hadn't foreseen this eventuality. As far as he was aware, the officers from Scotland Yard always acted in line with policy – how had they stumbled into such a faux pas? It didn't bode well. Maybe some disciplinary action really was necessary to remind those alphas where their duty lay.

At any rate, there was nothing to be done about the situation at the moment. Lord Moran would be occupied with the heat, no matter whether one of his omegas had murdered a bunch of people or not. All they could do was wait and hope that the investigation resumed as soon as possible.

With his hands on his hips, Sherlock resumed prowling around the living room, formulating the new questions that had arisen.

"Sebastian is one of six omegas... and he doesn't seem at all happy with the situation. That's been confirmed by the neighbour with the cat. But why would he kill those alphas? What was their relationship to him?" he murmured, lost in thought.

"If it was even him," John pointed out.

Sherlock raised one eyebrow and gave John a pointed look. "You still don't think he could have done it?"

John shrugged. "I just think we need some more concrete evidence for an accusation like that."

Sighing, Sherlock turned away from the window and ran both hands through his hair, then locked his fingers behind his head and leaned back into the cradle of his hands. His mind was racing. On the one hand, he was frustrated that John didn't realise how high the probability was that Sebastian was in fact the killer. On the other hand, he had to admit that John was right about needing evidence to be able to convict the omega.

Whoever had done it, they had done an immaculate job. They hadn't left behind any evidence, and were –_ hold on!_

Acting on a sudden impulse, Sherlock charged around the desk to the pile of documents related to the McKenzie case and rifled through the various medical reports. He skimmed the autopsy findings from the deceased alphas, and passed one sheet to John.

"The victims were injected with a fast-acting tranquiliser. Is the dose high enough to be fatal, in your opinion?"

John glanced at the report and reluctantly shook his head. "Of course it depends on the size and weight of the individual, but... no, I don't think so. However, that amount would definitely have knocked them out within half a minute at most."

"But it _is_ one of the drugs used in the States for executions by lethal injection. Why not go ahead and use enough to kill the alpha outright? Why the bloodbath?" Sherlock asked rhetorically. "And then the two omegas... They were done in by the bond breaking, but there's still something strange about it. Look at this."

Sherlock passed John the autopsy reports for the two omegas. Rather than waiting for the doctor's reaction, he went into his room and fetched a folder out of his dresser, which he brought back and set on the table as well. He looked expectantly at John.

"Well, I'm... not an expert in omega medicine, but... the blood panel does seem a little... unusual. The whole profile looks more like that of an..." John broke off and cleared his throat. He looked up at Sherlock, baffled.

"An alpha," Sherlock concluded, managing only with difficulty to suppress a knowing grin. "And now have a look at this." He opened the folder and extracted another piece of paper, which he handed to John. It showed a similar set of results.

"Whose are these?" John asked in confusion.

"Mine."

"Wha – How is that possible?!"

"It's not a current report, it's almost two years old. I was taking Seven regularly at the time. I assume you know what that is?" Sherlock asked.

"Yeah, I've read about it. Sherlock – "

Sherlock cut in before John could change the subject: "The values are nearly identical! Which means the probability is extremely high that they took Seven shortly before their death! How else could they be so similar?" Sherlock was painfully aware that he had just given John one more glimpse into his disastrous past. He could tell that John had a lot of questions about his drug consumption, but he didn't want to get involved in a discussion about it at the moment.

"How quickly are alpha hormones broken down in an omega's body?" he asked instead.

John pulled a thoughtful face. "I'm not sure, but it can't be more than a few hours. You'd need to ask an expert to – "

"Don't you see what this means? Both omegas took Seven shortly before they died. If the omegas of the other alphas also have traces in their bloodstream, then we'd at least have a noteworthy similarity."

"The other alphas died too long ago. Even if the omegas were injected with the drug, there wouldn't be anything left to find by now," John pointed out.

"What about the last victim's omega? She was found in a café shortly after her alpha's body was discovered, and brought from there directly to hospital. The closest omega hospital to that café is... St Bart's." Sherlock picked up his phone again and was just about to ring Lestrade when he remembered the man had other things to worry about at the moment. So instead, he entered Molly Hooper's number.

"Molly, I need your help..."

*

"Ghanpati Bishop has been under round-the-clock observation since the violent disruption of her bond. She was lucky to get medical care as quickly as she did," Molly explained while she called up the electronic patient file on her screen.

Sherlock grunted his agreement as he hovered over her shoulder. "Did she have blood drawn?"

"Yes, they did. Here are the results," she said, indicating the relevant lines. The levels were similar to Sherlock's when he'd been taking drugs, as well as those of the deceased omegas. Sherlock straightened up and gave John a pointed look.

John shrugged, his arms folded across his chest. "So she probably also took Seven. How exactly does that help us?"

"At least three of the six omegas took the drug immediately prior to their alphas' murder. It's almost as if they knew what was coming. I can't believe it was a coincidence," Sherlock said.

"Then the omegas were somehow involved in the murders? Really?" Molly said, aghast.

"That's my theory. The Seven ensured that the link to their alphas was weakened, so that they wouldn't be as strongly affected by the deaths. It didn't quite work with the first two omegas, however; maybe the composition was different than with the others..."

It was at that point that Sherlock registered a sudden shift in John's scent: something grim and earthy obscured his otherwise sunny fragrance, leaving a bitter aftertaste on his tongue. When he looked over at John, he saw him stiffen even more, as if he were experiencing physical pain. A shadow passed over his face and his frown reflected a combination of anger and despair. His lips were pressed together so hard they were almost white.

"John?"

"I need some air!" John blurted out and whirled around to leave Molly's little office.

*

Sherlock couldn't find John anywhere, either inside or outside the hospital. After waiting for a short while, he eventually returned home alone. He wasn't sure whether John's upset stemmed from his theory that the omegas had something to do with the deaths of their alphas, or from the fact that Sherlock had taken Seven himself once upon a time.

As a doctor, he must have been aware how Seven worked. Hearing that his own omega had resorted to using the drug to influence their bond... Perhaps that knowledge had hit him harder than expected.

It must have sounded as if Sherlock had wanted to distance himself even further from John. Even though John had no idea how much Sherlock had suffered from the emotions and sensations which had been transmitted to him from his alpha over the years. The army training, the affairs, the omega brothel, the impregnation plan, not to mention how painful and scary it had been to almost lose John when he'd been shot.

Other omegas might find it romantic that he was so intimately linked to his alpha, but they had no idea! It was anything but romantic to have to experience all of these one-sided emotions all alone – even if John had apparently received some kind of echo when Sherlock had wanted to stop him from impregnating the other omega.

Should he inform John? About the possibility that it might really be some kind of soul bond? Should he risk appearing foolish? Being laughed at? Who would be served by the truth?

It was already after eleven that night when Sherlock heard John's footsteps on the stairs. He stared tensely at the door to the flat, but instead of coming in, John went straight up to the second floor. He'd probably seen the light on in the living room and wanted to avoid a confrontation with Sherlock. Or maybe he'd only returned to pack his things, Sherlock thought to himself, listening anxiously to the sounds in the house. He couldn't determine with any certainty what the barely audible creaks and swishes meant. Everything fell silent after just a few minutes, leading Sherlock to assume that John had gone to bed.

Secretly relieved, Sherlock snapped his laptop shut and got up. He turned off the light and went into his bedroom to change for the night and clean his teeth. It was still relatively early, but after the excitement of the day, he felt drained and on edge. Under those circumstances, going to bed earlier than usual sounded tempting.

But sleep evaded him. Sherlock stared at the ceiling, restless and troubled, and thought about John lying in his bed as well, also reflecting on the day's events and wondering whether Sherlock had tried to erase John from his life with drugs.

Yet wasn't that precisely what he had attempted to do? Hadn't he wanted to silence that part of John that seemed to be dogging his every waking moment, in order to finally have some peace?

Sherlock chewed sullenly on his lower lip and rolled onto his side.

Neither he nor John could have known that this bond would take on such dimensions. They'd both entered into it to gain the maximum amount of freedom in this absurd society; freedom which was otherwise constantly being undermined by their biology. They'd wanted to outsmart Mother Nature, and instead had put themselves into checkmate.

By the time Sherlock checked the time, it was nearly one a.m., with no prospect of sleep in sight. Frustrated, he flipped the bedspread aside and got up. He snuck down the hall and through the kitchen, opened the door to the flat as quietly as possible, and went out into the stairwell. He looked up the stairs, where the balustrade gleamed softly in the moonlight, and slowly set one foot after the other up the steps. When he got to the top, his heart was beating so hard that he waited quite a while before twisting the doorknob and entering John's room without knocking.

His alpha lay in bed with his back to the door. His breaths were calm and even, but stuttered briefly as Sherlock approached. He jerked and turned his head toward the sound.

"Sherlock...?"

Sherlock's stomach flipped as if he'd been caught doing something forbidden, and an anxious tingling fizzled through his body. He cleared his throat lightly but didn't know what to say. His freezing toes curled into the carpet, and his fingers trembled as they grasped the material of his pyjama bottoms. In the faint residual light of the room, he saw John rub his eyes, then turn onto his side and lift the covers. A wordless invitation.

Sherlock swallowed down his confusing emotions and slipped into bed beside him. He didn't dare cuddle up to John, but he was incredibly relieved that his alpha at least tolerated having him nearby.

"Thank you," he whispered so softly that John probably didn't even hear it. Then he closed his eyes and tried again to fall asleep, this time ensconced in the aura of John's calming scent and body heat.

*

Anyone could have predicted what happened next. When he awoke, Sherlock was tangled up with John, his face buried in the crook of John's neck and one arm and one leg draped possessively across his body. Still half-asleep, he cuddled up closer to the warm body beside him and slid his right hand up underneath John's t-shirt as if it belonged there, in order to take advantage of as much skin-on-skin contact as possible. It wasn't until a few seconds later that his drowsy brain registered John's erection pushing into his thigh, stiff and unyielding.

As on most mornings, Sherlock was also aroused and didn't give it a second thought before reaching down and grabbing his cock to shift it into a more comfortable position. As he moved his hand back to where it had been, he brushed the lump in John's pyjamas, instinctively cupping it.

John let out a vague sigh and nuzzled into the nest of riotous curls alongside his cheek. The arm which he'd wrapped around Sherlock during the night tightened as if of its own accord, drawing his omega in closer. He stretched, tensing his hips and legs, which had the effect of pushing his erection up into Sherlock's palm.

Sherlock firmed up his hold through the material, as if to prevent John from moving away, and in doing so felt the way he made John's foreskin slide incrementally over his shaft, causing his erection to twitch lasciviously in Sherlock's hand. The room still lay in semi-darkness thanks to the heavy curtains, and the cover lay over them like a protective cocoon. Warmth and comfort settled around them, shutting out the world and all of its problems.

Nothing existed in that liminal space other than their bodies and the magic unfolding between them. No superfluous thoughts of yesterday or tomorrow; no fear and no anger. Just the sense of belonging and indispensable closeness; that and the lust which was accumulating in them, bit by bit. It was a vacuum within which they felt their way forward blindly, constantly seeking out those few spare centimetres they hadn't yet become acquainted with through their lips or fingers.

As if by silent agreement, both refused to open their eyes and face the new day. They pulled the comforter over their heads to return to the darkness of the night, kissed skin that was growing increasingly heated – a cheek, under an ear, a collarbone – and ignored the incessantly rising heat beneath the down.

As if seized by a fever, Sherlock balanced himself over John on one arm, latched onto his neck with his mouth, and hooked his thumbs into the fabric of John's pyjama trousers. He pushed them down far enough for John's erection to spring free, then promptly encircled the damp head and rubbed across the sensitive nerve endings as he revelled in the sound John made. He wanted to dip down and capture the first few drops of pre-come with his tongue, wanted to know whether they tasted different now than during a heat.

But when he scooted onto his knees and dragged the blanket down with him, John sighed and took a gulp of fresh air from the comparatively cool room. And with that, the spell was broken. A moment later, John grasped Sherlock's bicep and held him in place, thwarting his plans.

"Wait! Don't..."

Abruptly jarred out of his daydream, Sherlock sat up. His tangled curls peeked out from underneath the cover. It slipped off his head and dropped to his shoulders, revealing what a sight he was: his face red from the heat, his lips puffy, his t-shirt twisted up, and a dark stain of pre-come from his erection on the front of his pyjama bottoms.

He looked at John uncertainly, but John had already pulled up his pyjamas, sat up, and swung his legs off the bed. He hunched over, rested his hands on his knees and ran both hands down his creased face.

"I can't do this..." John grated out in a thick voice and stood up. He was at the door in just a few steps, then opened it and ran down the stairs.

Sherlock sat there, as if struck by lightning.

_What the – ?!_

He drew the cover more tightly around his trembling frame and looked down at the spot where he'd just been lying in John's arms.

What did this mean? Hadn't they said they wanted to try? Had Sherlock understood John wrong? Had the request only encompassed heats and a companionable side-by-side existence, but not... not...

_He doesn't want _me_. He wants me to leave him alone – outside of heats..._

_Just like we agreed on at the beginning. But that's not … a relationship._

_I'm such an idiot!_

+++

tbc


	23. Chapter 23

_Shit, shit, shit!_

John went down the stairs on wobbly legs to the first floor. He resisted his – now well established – instinct to protect himself by fleeing at the first sign of a confrontation with Sherlock. At a minimum, the fact that he was still wearing his pyjamas made any notion of running away impractical.

Instead, he went into the kitchen and tried to make tea with shaking hands. He swore when he turned the taps on too hard and the water hit a forgotten spoon in the sink which acted as a springboard to splatter John's t-shirt.

"Shit!"

John angrily slammed the empty kettle back onto the heating element and plucked at his shirt. Without any warning, he was hit by a sudden wave of weariness. He sighed, leaned on the counter and let his head droop.

What was wrong with him all of a sudden? What had happened to them? They'd been doing so well. It had looked as if they were both finally open to each other, each reaching out – to the best of their abilities. John would have jumped for joy just a few days ago if Sherlock had joined him in bed. To say nothing of intimate caresses at dawn. But now?

Everything felt so horribly wrong ever since John had finally put two and two together yesterday. Once he'd connected up Sherlock's careless comments, his use of Seven, and all the scars on his arms. How could he have been so blind? So terribly stupid and naïve?

He was so angry. At Sherlock. At himself. He wanted to smash something to bits, or else lie down on the floor and curl up into a ball until the sense of despair passed. Where was the fairy godmother who was supposed to appear and grant three wishes when he most desperately needed them?

John fancied he could sense the heightened stress levels in his omega's body now that he'd absconded from the bedroom, leaving Sherlock alone. Things couldn't continue like this, but he had no idea what he wanted to happen. Particularly in light of the knowledge that Sherlock had willingly accepted the risk of dying, just to stop sensing his alpha.

John growled and pounded his fist down on the counter. Dishes and lab equipment clattered in protest as he slammed his fist down over and over until his shoulder started to ache and his hand turned numb. But he didn't unclench his fist until a traitorous creak on the stairs penetrated the haze of his anger, telling him that Sherlock was on the way down.

The outer surface of his hand was red and swollen, and a protruding tile had scraped his skin, leaving a helter-skelter pattern of scratches. John shamefacedly rubbed at the injured area and waited for Sherlock to enter.

The omega didn't make any attempt to speak to John as he slunk through the kitchen to get to his room. It wasn't until he was nearly at the end of the corridor that John jolted out of his lethargy and hastened to catch up to him.

"Wait!"

Sherlock stopped in front of his room and whirled around. He gave John an imperious look, unable to completely conceal the hurt in his expression.

"What do you want now, John?"

_What do I want? I want... I... _John's thoughts whirled around in a jumble, preventing him from putting together any sort of logical response. Anger and despair battled for dominance once again, constricting John's throat. He swallowed hard and clenched his wounded hand.

"At least I know now what you don't want," Sherlock hissed, folder his arms over his chest. "I have no idea how I could have been so wrong about your intentions, but it certainly won't happen again."

"What are you talking about?" John asked, confused.

"About your 'let's give it a go,' that self-help book, this … this…" Sherlock made an awkward gesture, indicating first John then himself. "This relationship. Outside of heats. You don't want me."

"_I_ don't want _you_?!" John shook his head and stepped forward, grabbed roughly hold of the curls at Sherlock's nape, and pulled him close. He pressed his nose into the soft skin of Sherlock's neck and took a deep breath. Before Sherlock could so much as react to John's move, he let go and stepped back again. "I want you! I've wanted you the whole time, you bloody idiot. I'm just so incredibly angry. At you, at myself. At us."

"I don't understand."

"After yesterday, Sherlock. I've finally figured it out."

"What happened yesterday?" The question was posed in a way that clearly indicated he had no idea. Yet at the same time, John could sense – virtually smell – that Sherlock was instantly on alert.

All of a sudden, John realised the absurdity of the situation: the two of them standing in their pyjamas in the hallway, hurling accusations at each other. John sighed in frustration, tossed his hands in the air, turned on his heel, and marched into the living room. He listened with half an ear to see if Sherlock would follow him, mostly assuming that the omega would take the opportunity to run off. He was therefore that much more surprised to hear Sherlock's bare feet padding after him. He dropped into his armchair and glared balefully at Sherlock, who took the seat across from him.

"I've finally connected some of the dots," he growled, resuming the thread of their conversation.

"Have you now?" Sherlock cocked one eyebrow and looked at John with an expression of mild interest. But the omega couldn't fool John. The tension emanating from Sherlock fairly made the air around him vibrate.

"I've finally understood why you took that drug, that it was such torture for you to be bonded to me that you preferred to pump yourself full of Seven. All those times in Afghanistan when I just didn't feel _right_. Those unexplained highs and weird numbness. Here – see this?"

John leaned forward in his chair and pointed at his left temple. A scar was visible just beneath his hairline.

"That was the first time. Right after we hightailed it out of that bloody brothel. I felt like I was flying high, practically manic, despite being so utterly disgusted by what I'd seen in there. And then BAM – I just keeled over and landed on a rock. I thought someone had spiked my drink. But now I'm not so sure."

Sherlock sat on the edge of his seat, his eyes round, and stared at John in horror. He reached out one finger as if intending to touch John's scar, but stopped halfway there and pulled his hand back. He smeared his index and middle fingers across his lips and cleared his throat lightly.

"When... when was this?"

John shrugged and rubbed his eyes. "No idea. Sometime around the time of my first birthday in Afghanistan. It was a present from my buddies. Round the beginning of May, or thereabouts?"

Sherlock inhaled sharply and slid back in his chair as if he needed to create space between himself and John.

"That can't … I … That was the first time I took Seven."

"The first time… and how many were there after that?" John asked wearily and closed his eyes.

"Joh…"

"Whenever I was with someone. When I thought I'd give Mary and me a chance, that I had to move on because there was no chance of a future between me and my omega. When I…" John broke off with a sigh and opened his eyes to look at Sherlock. "It's my fault, isn't it? I drove you to it because you couldn't bear to be bonded to me."

Sherlock slapped his hand over his mouth and looked at John in shock.

"John, I…" he murmured, only to break off when John slid out of his chair, knelt down in front of him, and grasped his wrist.

With an unyielding grip, John twisted Sherlock's arm around to see the inside of his lower arm. He traced his fingertip along the crescent-shaped scar that shimmered brightly there.

"Was it here? The near-fatal injection?" John asked, his voice thick.

Sherlock nodded and rubbed the spot with his thumb. "How did you know about that? Did Mycroft tell you?"

John shook his head wearily when Sherlock confirmed his worst suspicion with that question. He cleared his throat in a fruitless attempt to shift the lump that sat there.

"You cannot even imagine how horrible it was. The pain, the panic, the incredible fear that you might die. I was so helpless, so completely powerless. That awful sense of not knowing until word came through that you were alive…"

"Lestrade found me…" Sherlock whispered in a low voice.

John jerked his hand back and let Sherlock's arm flop down onto the armrest. He clambered to his feet, ignoring the protests coming from his knees, and was shocked to realise that his eyes were stinging in a suspicious manner. He rubbed them hard and turned away, just to be on the safe side.

"Why do you think he found you, you idiot? Because I somehow managed to get word to your brother that you were _dying_." John's voice cracked as he returned his gaze to Sherlock.

"I had no idea," Sherlock whispered, aghast.

"Because I never wanted you to know. And now I finally understand that it wasn't an accident that almost killed you, but that you consciously took the chance you might die. Or _was_ it a suicide attempt? Did you _want_ to die? Should we have let you? Would death have been a better alternative than being together with me?"

By now, the tears were streaming freely down John's face. He swiped at them in frustration, but that did nothing to stem the flow. Sherlock looked like he wanted to say something, but pressed his lips together and fell silent when John shook his head fiercely.

"Don't say anything. I don't want to know. Not now. I only want you to understand that it's not all about you. We were both naïve to think we could enter into a bond and not have there be any consequences. That's what makes me so fucking angry. And then you go and think of nothing the whole time except how bloody hard it is for you as an omega. Did you ever stop to think it was also torture for me? _Is_ torture?!"

John swallowed thickly and wiped the tears out of his eyes again and again, lowering his head in embarrassment at such a display of weakness.

"Ever since I bit you and irrevocably sealed our bond, it's been as if part of me was ripped out. I yearn for you when you're not here, as if part of my soul were missing. But all you see are your own problems. All you do is feel sorry for yourself and complain about the injustice of being an omega. You completely overlook the fact that we're both suffering from this bond. Neither of us is free. Me no more than you. Fuck, I wish I'd never agreed to this insanity…"

"John…"

Sherlock hesitantly placed one hand on John's upper arm, but John shook it off. He hadn't even noticed Sherlock stand up and approach him. He hurriedly distanced himself by moving to the other side of the room. He couldn't stand to be that close to Sherlock right now, couldn't even look at him. He was too afraid of what he might discover in Sherlock's face.

"No, don't. Leave it… I can't now. Shit, I have to go to work."

And with those words, he hurriedly vacated the room, leaving the building shortly thereafter without so much as sparing another glance for Sherlock.

*

When John returned from what luckily turned out to be a routine shift, he found the flat empty. He wasn't really surprised that Sherlock had left and not waited for him to return. At least his absence allowed John to sort through his confusing thoughts for a little while longer. Although his anger had burned off by then, replaced by a dull sense of resignation, he still felt as if he had been pushed to the limit. He slipped off his jacket and shoes, pulled his jumper over his head, and looked around, uncertain of what to do next.

He wasn't particularly hungry, nor did he feel like having tea. He would have preferred a beer or a whisky, but he'd just been drinking the night before. Maybe a warm bath would be relaxing.

Pleased with his plan, John went down the hall to the bathroom, only to find to his surprise that there was light shining under the door. He could also hear a faint splashing. Now, so close to the door, he could smell Sherlock's delicate scent, even if it was partially overlaid by one of John's bath oils.

He was obviously not alone after all. John briefly debated whether he should retreat and leave Sherlock to his own devices, but on the other hand they had to see each other again sometime, so he might as well get it over with. Plus, he was missing his omega.

He knocked softly on the wooden door and opened it without waiting for a response. He stopped in the doorway and hesitantly looked around the humid, fragrant room. Sherlock lay in the tub with his back to the door. Foamy mounds danced on the surface of the water, obscuring the omega's body almost completely. Only a couple of centimetres of knobby knees were visible. Sherlock's head rested against the edge of the tub, and a folded washcloth lay across his eyes.

"Come in, why don't you?" Sherlock grumbled. "And close the door, there's a draught."

John scratched behind his ear, undecided, then finally plucked up his courage and entered the bathroom. He flipped down the toilet lid and took a seat.

"Hey..." he finally muttered.

"Hey," Sherlock responded without moving a muscle.

"How are you doing?"

Sherlock made an indeterminate sound and shrugged. John watched in fascination as water and suds ran off his glistening shoulders before they disappeared again beneath the surface. John moistened his damp lips, already warm from the humidity in the air. He quickly looked away, feeling as if he'd been caught doing something forbidden, even though Sherlock couldn't even see him because of the washcloth.

Sherlock's clothes were strewn across the bathroom floor. John poked the carelessly discarded pile with his toes, making out a pair of suit trousers, a jacket, and a white shirt.

"Did you go out?"

"Hmhm," Sherlock confirmed. "I visited the crime scene again to have a look around. I was hoping to find something the Yard had overlooked that might help me."

Concern and anger flashed through John's gut for a fraction of a second, making him inhale sharply. He squeezed his right hand into a fist and dug his nails into the ball of his hand.

_He's not doing it to get back at you after the fight. He's not putting himself in danger to prove anything. He's just doing his job... _John reminded himself silently before speaking.

"And? Find anything?" He asked, proud that he managed such a nonchalant tone.

Sherlock shook his head, and John could almost physically sense his disappointment.

"No. The flat was sealed up and I didn't want to break in. Especially not after the mess down at the Yard because of the case. It might have got Lestrade into even more trouble."

A small mountain of suds made its way across the water as Sherlock lifted his hand and placed it on the edge of the tub. John caught sight of a rosy nipple before the foam covered it again. Visibly tense, Sherlock drummed his fingers against the porcelain, then started rubbing it, as if the smooth surface helped ground him.

"Then I went to the house across the way," Sherlock continued his report. "I had hoped to find something there. Some clue as to why Moran was there. But that also turned out to be a dead end. The lock on the house next door is broken; according to one of the residents, the electricity keeps shorting out. I think we can exclude Moran from having anything to do with that. However, I do believe he took advantage of the situation to view the scene by hiding in the stairwell and spying through the window."

"Do you think he's also returned to the scenes of the other murders?"

Sherlock shrugged again. This time, the layer of soap suds parted, revealing his collarbone and shoulders.

"Possibly. But then again, there's no common denominator. The murders took place in terraced homes, free-standing single-family dwellings, and once even in a penthouse. He wouldn't have been able to view all of the crime scenes. The question is rather how he gained access to the victims."

"Do you have any ideas?" John asked, honestly interested in the answer.

"Several."

When Sherlock stopped there, giving no sign of intending to share his thought process, John felt obliged to move the conversation forward.

"And then? Did you come home and get into the bath?"

"No." Sherlock shook his head, then adjusted the washcloth, which had shifted with the motion. "Then I searched a large number of skips, hoping to find bloodstained clothing. As you quite rightly noted, blood must have splashed onto the killer. Yet Moran's clothes were clean when he was arrested."

John's chest swelled with pride at Sherlock's indirect praise of his observation.

"I assume you didn't find anything.

Sherlock grunted a confirmation. "The waste collection came through yesterday. Which doesn't mean I didn't root through food scraps, full nappies, and other assorted rubbish. Perhaps I should have checked the collection schedule beforehand."

John blurted out a spluttering laugh before he was able to catch it. He hurriedly bit his lip, but he was pleased to see a teensy smile tugging at the corner of Sherlock's mouth. Hoping that the ice had thawed somewhat between them, John screwed up his courage and changed the topic.

"I'm sorry."

"No need to be," Sherlock replied easily. "If anyone should apologise, it's Lestrade. He didn't respond to my inquiries on whether anyone had checked the rubbish."

John cleared his throat. "That's not what I meant."

Sherlock sighed and compressed his lips, squeezing the bridge of his nose through the washcloth. "I know."

"I'm truly sorry. I shouldn't have just left you high and dry like that this morning, but I…"

"It's all right, John," Sherlock reiterated, then added in a softer tone: "When are you moving out?"

"What?" Ice-cold water shot through John's veins, making him break out in goosebumps despite the tropical temperatures in the bathroom. "I don't want to move out! Do you want me… Are you tossing me out?"

The washcloth fell into the water with a slapping sound as Sherlock sat up, seeking out eye contact for the first time. The surprise was written all over his face.

"Of course I'm not tossing you out. Don't be ridiculous. You're the one who doesn't want all this anymore."

John shook his head vehemently. "I never said anything of the sort."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes suspiciously and gave John a searching look. "May I quote you? 'Fuck, I wish I'd never agreed to this insanity.' Those were your words, correct? Not mine."

John tossed his head back, expelling a loud sigh and directing his gaze at the ceiling. There was a small crack on the far right edge that ran the entire length of the room. He kept his eyes fixed on the damaged area as he spoke.

"Yes, I did say that. But it's too late now, isn't it. And it doesn't mean I don't want you. On the contrary. We need to deal with this. I want things to work between us. That's why it hit me so hard when I realised why you'd taken Seven. That it was my fault. Our bond was supposed to make your life easier, but instead it's made everything so much harder."

"It's not like that."

"Yes, that's exactly how it is. You felt it when I was with other people, didn't you?"

"Yes," his omega whispered softly.

"And you took Seven so you wouldn't feel it, right?"

Sherlock made an affirmative sound and looked down at the water, where the suds were dissolving. Following a sudden impulse, John got up and moved to sit next to Sherlock on the edge of the tub. He hesitantly placed one hand on the back of Sherlock's neck. When there was no defensive posture forthcoming from the omega, John started carefully stroking his wet skin and running his fingers through his hair.

"So it _is_ my fault you needed to numb yourself."

The omega shook his head. "You couldn't have known. And you had my express permission to … have sex with other people. I couldn't guess that I'd _feel_ it. Neither of us could."

"Every time I got intimate with someone, it just felt wrong."

John felt the way Sherlock flinched at the word _intimate_. He increased the pressure of his touches on Sherlock's neck, hoping to calm him. In an effort to lighten the mood, he tried humour.

"This a good place for a heart-to-heart, isn't it? You can't run away when you're in the bath."

"You're the one who always runs away when there's trouble between us," Sherlock murmured in a low voice.

"Oh." Sherlock was right. John lowered his eyes, feeling caught out. Whenever they had an argument, John was the one who made haste to disappear. Like yesterday, when he'd run away from St Bart's, initially trudging randomly around the city before ending up at the next best pub.

"You're right. I'm sorry. I'll try to do better, okay?"

Sherlock shrugged noncommittally, and John thought he caught a glimpse of the omega nervously wringing his hands beneath the water. They both fell silent until, after a while, Sherlock cleared his throat.

"I need to wash my hair."

John understood that he was indirectly being asked to leave the bathroom, but he wasn't ready to go yet. Instead, he took down the showerhead, leaned over Sherlock's shoulder to reach the taps, and turned on the water.

"Let me do it," he said as he adjusted the temperature until it was pleasantly lukewarm.

He carefully directed the water over Sherlock's curls until they were soaked and lay flat against his head. John pumped two shots of Sherlock's shampoo into his hand, rubbed it between his hands, and started to lather up Sherlock's hair. He tenderly massaged his omega's scalp down to the nape until the tension melted away and Sherlock sighed softly. The scent of cedarwood mixed with the fragrance of John's bath oil.

"Sherlock?" John said gently after rinsing the shampoo out, then started massaging in Sherlock's pricey conditioner. "There's something else that I don't understand."

John immediately noticed Sherlock tensing up again.

"What is it?" Sherlock finally prompted when John didn't continue.

_Now or never..._

John methodically rinsed the product out of Sherlock's hair before he went on. "You felt what I was feeling, right?"

"Yes," Sherlock agreed with a furtive undertone.

"And I felt what you were feeling. More than once. And not just in the extreme situation when you almost died." John casually stroked Sherlock's arm, running his thumb along the scar on the inside of his elbow. "Do you understand what I'm trying to say?" he pressed.

When Sherlock stubbornly remained silent, John slid down off the edge of the bathtub and knelt on the floor mat beside it. He grasped Sherlock's chin between his fingers and turned his head so that the omega had to look at him.

"I'm scared that _you_ don't want me. That you'd rather die than be together with me. Despite the fact that we have a _soul bond_."

+++

tbc


	24. Chapter 24

_I'm scared that _you_ don't want me. That you'd rather die than be together with me. Despite the fact that we have a _soul bond_._

Sherlock swallowed thickly. The water in the bathtub where he sat had cooled markedly, and the foam had almost entirely disappeared. A shiver ran down his back.

_… that _you_ don't want me … _

_… soul bond …_

His heart pounded dully in his chest, tugging painfully at the emotions he'd suppressed for so long, and which had increased exponentially since John had returned to his life. At the same time, he felt the presence of the fear and defensiveness that had had him in their grip over all these years. The certainty that love was nothing more than an illusion; that all those emotions which other people lumped together as "love" were nothing more than hormonal instincts. A whim of nature.

"…fairy tales…" Sherlock whispered, his head lowered.

"Hm?" John asked. He was still kneeling patiently beside the bathtub, watching Sherlock expectantly.

"It's just a fairy tale… soul bonding," Sherlock clarified, even as his heart sped up. There was no denying that they both probably had the same suspicion regarding the nature of their bond, yet it was incredibly difficult for Sherlock to face up to a myth become reality.

John sighed heavily. "I always thought so too. Ever since my first inkling, I've kept sweeping the possibility under the rug. I just couldn't believe it. But after what you said yesterday… Cilia was the first one who told me about soul bonds. But even those two, despite being so close, the perfect couple… Even them…"

Sherlock twisted his head toward John so that he could see his expression. But John gave his head a gentle shake.

"They both deny that they are."

"Do you know… anyone else who's… in a similar situation?" Sherlock asked.

"I don't know. There was another alpha who left the brothel that time together with me because he felt like his omega was dragging him out… But I haven't kept in touch with him. I can't even remember his name."

Sherlock leaned forward, pulled out the plug, and let the water drain out. Then he stood up and reached for the towel that hung nearby. He stepped out of the tub and wrapped it around his hips.

John got to his feet as well, and handed Sherlock another smaller towel so he could dry his hair.

"What about Anthea? During our visit, it sounded like she knew about soul bonds," John said, his eyes tracking Sherlock's every move.

Sherlock snorted derisively and shook his head. "I don't think she and Mycroft have one. There are a lot of rumours amongst omegas in particular about soul bonds, so I'm not surprised that she's familiar with the topic. But those are all fairy tales or soppy romance novels glorifying that type of bond. It has no basis in reality," Sherlock said, although the last few words came out sounding somewhat defensive.

"Sherlock…" John gently grasped Sherlock's upper arm, wiping a couple of stray droplets from his damp skin. He looked so sad with his eyebrows drawn together and the corners of his mouth pointing downward that it pained something deep inside Sherlock's heart. He knew that he still owed John an answer. An answer to the accusation that Sherlock didn't want him.

Accusation? No, it wasn't an accusation. It was fear. A fear that Sherlock was only too familiar with. After all, he'd had similar feelings for years, feelings which he didn't think his alpha returned. He tried to organise his thoughts into meaningful sentences, but felt his throat constricting and his tongue refusing to form the required syllables. What should he say? What could he do to make things right?

Was it still so far-fetched that John might truly want him? After everything he'd said and done?

"I… didn't plan it," Sherlock said, his voice thick.

"What do you mean?" John said, lowering his hand – presumably because he had the impression that his touch was unwanted.

"The overdose. I didn't want to… die." Their eyes met. Sherlock was acutely aware of long-suppressed grief rising into this throat and stinging under his eyelids. He didn't want these emotions, didn't want John to see them, yet he was powerless to hold them back.

"I wanted… I wanted… not to feel how happy you were anymore… knowing that I would… never have that," he said, interspersing the statement with deep breaths that were intended to keep his tears in check. "Because… because I pushed you away… and… never wanted… to give us a chance."

The quivering in Sherlock's muscles intensified, and his shoulders trembled. He felt exposed and raw and guilty because he'd made such a huge mess not only of his own life, but John's as well. He wasn't worthy of love, so it was no wonder that all the people he loved disappeared from his life.

"You're… so much more than I ever… allowed myself to hope for," Sherlock managed to get out as he angrily dashed away the first salty streaks from his face. "And I was so… frustrated… because I sent you away, and – "

John took a step closer to Sherlock and slung one arm around him. With the other hand, he gripped the back of Sherlock's neck. Sherlock instinctively wrapped his arms around John's waist and nuzzled into the crook of his alpha's neck, weeping quietly.

"Shh, shh…"

"I'm sorry," Sherlock croaked, crumpling John's shirt between his fingers.

"It's okay," John tried to soothe him. "We're here now." He tightened his grip on Sherlock a little more and rubbed his face against his damp curls. "We're here now," he repeated, softer this time, and pressed a kiss onto Sherlock's temple.

It took a while for Sherlock's breathing to normalise. John held him close the whole time, rubbing his bare back.

"You're getting cold," he said eventually. "What would you say to me making us some tea while you put something on. Then we could… talk?"

Sherlock nodded curtly and turned aside so that John couldn't see his red eyes. Self-consciously, he wiped the last few tears from his cheeks and went through the connecting door into his room. Once there, he took a pair of underwear and socks out of his dresser, put on his pyjama bottoms and an old t-shirt, and tossed his dressing gown on over it. He went back into the bathroom, hung the towels up to dry, blew his nose, and washed his face.

John had gone into the kitchen in the meantime, filled the kettle, and turned it on. Sherlock heard him taking cups out of the overhead cupboard and opening the refrigerator to take the milk out.

After a good, hard look in the mirror – his eyes were bloodshot, as was to be expected, and his face dotted with feverish red blotches – Sherlock spun around and joined John in the kitchen, battling a sense of frustration. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his dressing gown and looked down at the table, head lowered.

He hadn't touched the pheromone blocker experiment in weeks, but the Petri dishes and pipettes still lay where he'd left them. John hadn't disturbed anything, despite having personally suffered the effects of the last round and warning Sherlock of the potential consequences of a drug like that. In spite of his obvious concern, he'd let Sherlock decide how he wanted to proceed.

John filled the teapot with boiling water and set on the ceramic lid. He then picked up both of the prepared teacups by their handles in one hand, the teapot in his other hand, and turned to Sherlock.

"Shall we sit in the living room?"

Sherlock nodded, grabbed the milk carton and a saucer for the teabags, and followed John. They sat down on the sofa, albeit leaving some space between them – as if making room for the words they so urgently needed to exchange.

"When was the first time you felt it?" John asked as he poured some tea into his cup, pausing as soon as he realised it wasn't finished steeping yet.

"A few months after you left London. I was exhausted all the time but couldn't figure out why. After going back and forth with myself over it, I went to see Mike Stamford because he's familiar with omega medicine, and asked him for advice. My blood panel came back normal, but he saw the bite mark and asked about it."

"Okay… and you told him about us?"

Sherlock nodded.

"I haven't spoken to Mike in forever. The last time… I guess it must have been when he introduced us."

"He was the first one who told me soul bonds might be real," Sherlock added. "I didn't take him seriously at the time. I even lectured him because I thought he didn't know what he was talking about, being a beta."

John smirked as he could easily picture the scene in his head.

"But then it kept happening more frequently. I surmised I must have been sensing you going through basic training, but I didn't want to believe it. Then…" Sherlock fell silent and pressed his lips together. His eyes lingered on the teacups, which prompted John to fill them and top them up with a spot of milk.

"Then…?" he prompted delicately.

"Then I felt you… having sex, the first time. I couldn't tell who you were with, which made me think it must have been a beta."

John swallowed thickly; maybe he was recalling the exact situation, his first affair in Afghanistan. Or had he forgotten that name as well? How many of his flings had meant anything to him?

Sherlock examined John's face intently, trying to see through his furrowed brow to the thoughts behind it, but soon gave up. Whoever that beta had been, they didn't matter now.

"It looks like it took a bit longer for me to sense anything," John said. "My birthday wasn't until six months later… and before that… shit." He buried his face in his hands, unable to see Sherlock nod and crumple the fabric of his dressing gown in his fists.

"You must have been quite popular." The bitterness in Sherlock's voice was unmistakable.

"Yeah."

"You couldn't have known," Sherlock said once he saw the way John was staring down at his hands, filled with shame. A fresh wave of guilt crashed over him. Sherlock sipped some of his tea despite it still being too hot, then set the cup back down on the table. "What did you feel?"

John shook his head as if trying to shake the memory free. "Mostly the side effects of the drug. A combination of euphoria and resignation. I always thought the last bit came from me. I did… miss you. A lot. I don't know, that probably sounds ridiculous to you, but you meant a great deal to me from the first moment on, and… that feeling never diminished. Did you feel that too?" John asked, risking a sidelong glance at Sherlock.

He had his lips pressed firmly together. He was struggling both with John's revelation and with the fact that he seemed to have sensed a lot more of John's carnal emotions than his yearning. He shook his head, confused by these new facts.

"I wrote you several letters because I didn't want to lose contact with you entirely, but… you never responded. At some point, I finally let it be because I didn't want to infringe on our agreement any further. Sherlock, where – ?"

"Wait here," Sherlock said, after getting up and walking around the coffee table. He went into his room and opened the bottom drawer in his dresser, where he rummaged around amongst the papers and folders he kept there until he'd found what he was looking for. He returned to the living room and resumed his seat. At the same time, he set down between them the bundle of letters which Anthea had bound together with a violet ribbon and given to him many months earlier.

"I still have them all. Or at least all of the ones I was given… They were opened by Anthea or possibly even Mycroft; I never did find out which. But I've read them all. Several times. I was sad when they stopped coming, but I figured you'd finally given up on me," Sherlock explained.

John looked at the letters with rounded eyes. Haltingly, he picked them up and thumbed through them like the pages of a book.

"Why… didn't you ever write back?" he asked after a while, giving Sherlock a curious look.

"What was I supposed to write? 'Come back? Stop enjoying yourself with other people? We might have a soul bond, even though they only exist in fairy tales'?!" Sherlock snapped. "I couldn't know that you were any different than other alphas; not after a handful of letters that didn't do anything more than describe your daily routines. I couldn't know that you – " Sherlock stopped short, not knowing how to end that sentences.

"That I wanted you?"

"We barely knew each other!" Sherlock cried. "How could I possibly have thought that that initial attraction could become… _more_, after just a couple of meetings and a few texts? You might just as well have only been interested in my body and the heats – like so many discarded omegas can attest. How was I supposed to know you weren't like that? That you might be interested in a random stranger you hadn't spent more than five minutes in the same room with?!"

Sherlock sprang to his feet from the couch and ruffled his damp curls, frustrated. He had his teeth clenched together so hard that his jaw was protesting. He went to stand at the window, crossed his arms over his chest, and glared down at the busy road.

"You're right, you couldn't have known. I didn't expect anything like that either; otherwise I certainly wouldn't have agreed to the bond. My main purpose was simply to be accepted as a full-fledged member of society with all of the attendant rights and privileges, and to be allowed to join the army. That's why it seemed like the perfect solution to bond with an omega who didn't want any kind of relationship. But… something changed, Sherlock."

Sherlock perked his ears, but lifted his shoulders at the same time, tensing up even more in anticipation of what John was about to say.

"I was fascinated by you from the very start. I wanted to get to know you better, even though I knew I wouldn't have enough time to do it properly. That's why I didn't want to break off all contact with you. You can't begin to imagine how disappointed I was when you deleted my number from your phone right in front of me, and asked me to do the same. I knew I'd lost something before I'd even had a chance to hold onto it. Something fundamental. Do you understand?"

John got up and went to stand behind Sherlock at the window. Sherlock was acutely aware of his alpha's presence and scent, yet didn't dare to turn around and look him in the eyes.

"Maybe that was the first indication of a soul bond…" John added softly. "That inexplicable connection that I felt from the very first moment onward. Maybe I should have turned down the offer and found another omega who really did want more, but…"

John's hand hesitantly settled between Sherlock's shoulder blades, a red-hot weight through the layers of clothing.

"…but something in me wanted _you_."

Sherlock's breath caught in his throat. John had wanted him from the beginning, and even now, after everything that had happened, after everything they'd done to each other over the years and everything they'd learnt about each other… he still wanted him.

And Sherlock felt the same. Seeing how much it hurt John to find out that Sherlock had been exposed to so many of his unfiltered emotions that he hadn't known what else to do than numb himself into unconsciousness; knowing that he was open to the possibility of them having a soul bond, and hadn't simply dismissed it as romantic nonsense; discovering that he wanted Sherlock just as much as Sherlock wanted him – it was all such an incredible relief.

Sherlock slowly turned around and took John's hand which had been on his back. He rubbed his face into John's warm palm and sighed softly.

"I want you too… even though the fear of losing you is making me crazy right now."

Several emotions flashed across John's face in quick succession before he nodded and closed the last bit of distance between them. "I understand," he said, cradled Sherlock's cheeks, and kissed him.

Sherlock leaned into John and hesitantly returned the gentle embrace. He twisted his fingers into the material of John's shirt and drew his alpha in as close as he could.

"John…"

It was different than the times they'd kissed before.

Different than during the heat – which had been something between animalistic lust and blind passion.

Different than after the chase – which had been something between a surge of adrenaline and the necessity of knowing that the other one was okay.

It was freely given, deliberate and reciprocal. A bridge between the here and now and a future they both wanted to embark on together.

Their lips met again and again, each kiss an affirmation for the step they were undertaking. In between, they whispered each other's names into the rare bits of empty space between them, holding fast to one another in order not to lose their precarious balance.

Later, they wouldn't be able to say whether hours or mere minutes had passed. At some point, they collapsed exhausted onto the couch, cuddled up together and enjoying the closeness they had abstained from for so long.

Sherlock slipped his hand in between the lapels of his dressing gown and rested it on the front of his t-shirt to feel his heart beating hard against his sternum. He reached over to John with his other hand and placed it over his heart as well. After a few seconds, he sighed softly.

"Unison," he whispered.

"Yeah," John replied and dropped a feather-light kiss on Sherlock's forehead.

*

They weren't finished talking about the past and sketching out the future yet. It was clear they would need more time for that. It seemed impossible to lay out everything that had happened over the past few years on the table and dissect it without coming up against new hurdles and breaking out in an argument over some misunderstanding or another.

The emotions which had been stirred up in both of them were too raw, the status of their relationship too new.

Instead, they cooked some food and ate together, then tidied up and, after a moment's hesitation, went together into Sherlock's room to share the bed. John offered to go upstairs if they didn't feel ready to take this step yet, but Sherlock insisted. He'd already spent too many nights without John; he knew how much he would miss having his alpha close by.

They lay side by side, arms wrapped around each other in silent accord, too tired to express themselves with anything more than soft kisses and caresses on innocuous parts of their bodies. It was a new form of intimacy, one they'd had little experience with before. An intimacy that had been, at best, forced on them by their biology between heats and been powerless against. But now it progressed naturally, without compulsion.

Sherlock slipped one hand inside John's t-shirt and ran his fingers across the warm skin underneath as his tongue slid against its counterpart and his teeth gently scraped John's bottom lip.

John expelled a stuttered breath, increasing the pressure on Sherlock's lower back to bring his omega closer and deepen their kiss again. He ran his other hand down over the thin material of Sherlock's pyjama trousers and pulled Sherlock's thigh up over his hip.

Sherlock felt his way across the tangled scar tissue on John's left shoulder, tracing the ridges and indentations that were forever etched into his skin, and sighed against John's lips. He tried to make out John's eyes in the near-darkness, only to discover that his alpha was examining him as well, as if trying to read Sherlock's thoughts.

"The things I sensed from you often made me sad," Sherlock whispered into the blue-black space. "But in the end you saved my life. I wasn't able to do the same for you," he said and gently stroked the scar.

John pressed the hand under his t-shirt more firmly against his shoulder. "You felt it, didn't you? When I was shot?"

Sherlock nodded. "The pain knocked me off my feet. They had to sedate me to calm me down. But it must have been much worse for you."

"They?"

"I was still in rehab at the time. They let me contact Mycroft, who found out where you were and kept me updated on your condition. Sometimes he can be useful after all..."

John chuckled softly at the sarcasm in Sherlock's voice. "So you were worried then?"

Sherlock shrugged with one shoulder. "Of course. I never wished for you to come to any harm… much less for you to die. Mycroft said I was crazy from the start, since bonding with a soldier on active duty can also be life-threatening for their omega."

"Yeah… I wasn't even thinking of that until I saw what happened when my commanding officer lost his omega in an accident. He was unrecognisable afterwards," John said.

"My mother… she died not long after my father when he succumbed to a long struggle with lung cancer. That was shortly before my fifth birthday. I think their bond was particularly strong. She simply couldn't live without him." Sherlock's voice grew softer towards the end. He nuzzled into the crook of John's neck and inhaled the scent of his alpha, which always managed to soothe him.

"I'm sorry," John whispered, carding his fingers through Sherlock's hair. "You and your brother were so young then… who… who did you end up living with?"

"My uncle – Rudolph Deighton. He's – was – a beta, and wasn't quite sure what to do with us. When Mycroft turned eighteen, our parents' house in Kensington was signed over to him, and we moved back."

"Oh, is that the same house where Mycroft and Anthea live?"

Sherlock nodded. "Yes, and there's something odd about seeing Archie grow up there…"

"Why?" John asked.

"I'm not quite sure… Maybe he reminds me of myself. I only knew my father as a sick man who rarely had the energy to concern himself with children, while our mother waited on him hand and foot to make his life as bearable as possible. In some ways, Mycroft and Anthea are the same and yet completely different."

"What do you mean?"

"Even though Anthea does everything for him, Mycroft spends as little time as possible in his own home because he thinks in doing so he can conceal the fact that – " Sherlock stopped speaking and expelled a breath.

John waited a moment before saying, "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to."

Sherlock shook his head lightly. "I know… but… I've been carrying it around with me for so long and honestly I don't know how… It's so silly!" He rolled onto his back, away from John, and casually brushed a couple of stray locks of hair off his forehead.

John propped himself up on his right elbow and gazed down at Sherlock. "If it bothers you, then you should talk about it. Don't worry, I'll keep it to myself."

Sherlock turned his face toward John and grimaced sourly. "You're going to wonder what kind of family you've landed in…"

"Come on, it can't be that bad. I've already met him a few times, and aside from the way he treats you, he seems like a fairly ordinary alpha who's just trying to maintain his status. It must be a constant struggle in his position," John pointed out.

"Yes, particularly if one is no ordinary alpha…"

"In what way?"

"Have you never noticed anything about his scent?" Sherlock asked after a few moments. "Something that doesn't belong there?"

John sat up and leaned back against the headboard; sleep was out of the question at the moment anyway. "What do you mean?"

"Oh, he's quite clever about hiding it, but he's not always successful. Especially when a certain someone is around…"

"Er… okay… you think he's having an affair?" John asked.

"I'm almost positive – or at least I'm certain he _wants_ to have one. The only thing I'm not sure of is whether the person in question also wants it."

"Another omega? No wonder Anthea seems so down."

Sherlock shook his head. "Not an omega."

"A beta then?"

"No…"

Silence fell on the room. Sherlock waited until John had reached the only possible conclusion and was attempting to process the insight. "An… an… alpha?!" he asked incredulously.

"That's my assumption," Sherlock said with a long, drawn-out sigh.

"_Oh_… that… that's…"

"Odd, yes."

*

Next morning, Sherlock was annoyed with himself for having revealed his brother's secret to John. It was too late now though, the damage had been done and there was nothing for it but to live with the consequences. He probably would have found out himself at some point anyway, if they continued visiting Anthea to see Archie – which was still a high priority for Sherlock. He'd leave it up to John whether he pursued the topic of Mycroft and his unusual predilection, or never mentioned it again.

Despite everything, the mood between them hadn't changed that much. There was still a sense of palpable relief about having finally found their way to each other, prompting their eyes and hands to seek out and find one another over the breakfast table.

"Have any plans for today?" John asked, looking down at his phone to gauge how much time he had left before he had to leave for the clinic.

"I'm going to try to find out more about the omegas who survived the death of their alphas. Maybe their condition has improved enough to ask them some questions. The Yard's probably still in an uproar after what happened last time…"

"Yeah… I don't understand how a police officer on duty can forget their scent blocker. It's completely irresponsible," John said.

"I agree. I just hope the investigation doesn't suffer too much because of it. Otherwise we'll never be able to pin anything on Sebastian – if indeed he is the killer," Sherlock added when he saw John taking a breath in order to say just that.

"Right." John smiled as he got up, then leaned across the table to give Sherlock a kiss. "Sorry, I've got to get going," he said and went to the bathroom to clean his teeth.

Sherlock heard water running a few moments later. He was just pouring himself some more tea when his cell phone screen lit up, and a fraction of a second later the melody of a ring tone started playing. It was Lestrade.

"Good, I'm glad I've caught you. We've got a problem. Thanks to what went down at Lord Moran's and the subsequent media presence, it looks like we'll be moving the case to the back burner for the time being."

"What?! You can't be serious?" Sherlock barked into the phone.

Lestrade let out an aggravated sigh. "The IPCC have opened an investigation against all alphas employed by Scotland Yard, which includes me. They're supposed to determine whether we're fit to work cases involving omegas; we're likely going to have to undergo some sensitivity training before we're allowed on cases again. With the number of alphas around here, it's going to take a while…"

Sherlock angrily slammed his fist down on the table, making the dishes clatter and the tea in his cup slop over the rim. Just then, John appeared in the doorway, a smudge of toothpaste at the corner of his mouth, and gave his omega a worried look.

"And who's supposed to work the case now? What's going to happen to Sebastian Moran?!"

"There are only five betas still on active duty in our division, and Donovan's the only one who's familiar with the case. The alphas are confined to desk work. She tried to question Moran yesterday, but he refused to make so much as a peep. He wants… to talk to you, and no one else."

"To me?" Sherlock asked dubiously.

"Yes, he explicitly indicated you, although he didn't know your name. Apparently you left a pretty big impression on him when you confronted him in that back lane. At any rate… I've spoken to the commissioner, and even though it's against the rules, he's prepared to make an exception given the circumstances – as long as Donovan takes the lead. He thinks it's a good way to show that the Yard is safe for omegas," Lestrade explained. "But only if you agree. Without you, the case will have to wait until after internal affairs is done…"

"Hm…" Sherlock wasn't sure at all what to make of this development. On the one hand, he'd worked on countless cases with the officers at the Yard and always felt that he was treated well. On the other hand, the most recent incident had shown that even bonded alphas could become dangerous if they let their instincts take over. Who could guarantee it wouldn't happen again?

He looked over at John, who was still standing in the doorway, trying to figure out what the phone call was about. In addition, Sherlock still recalled John's warning about the risk of an unprofessionally conducted interview endangering the case. But what if the suspect wouldn't answer questions from anyone else? At least there was a good chance Sherlock would get some answers he wouldn't otherwise have.

"I'd like to bring John with me. Not to the interview. But I'd like to know he's close by," Sherlock said, watching as John's eyebrows rose toward his hairline in surprise as understanding dawned.

Lestrade covered his phone with his hand for a moment to speak to someone on his end, before emitting a pained sigh. "All right, fine. When can you be here?"

"In half an hour," Sherlock said and ended the call.

*

It didn't take long to convince John to accompany him to the Yard. He understood the circumstances and was anything but unhappy to be able to keep an eye on his omega in a potentially threatening situation. And so he'd called into the surgery and taken the day off.

Sherlock and John exited the taxi a short distance from the Yard and entered the building through a guarded back entrance in order to avoid the throng of reporters who had gathered on the square in front. But even inside, the vultures were never far away with their portable recorders, microphones, and cameras. Irritated police officers looked up from their desks, glaring daggers at every newcomer. The predominant alpha smell was laced with heated aggression, bitter antipathy, and the sharp tang of resentment.

Sherlock flipped up the narrow collar of his suit jacket, buried his hands deep in its pockets, and strode resolutely in the direction of Lestrade's office. John stayed close on his heels, but the bad vibes in the open-plan office space still affected him. His scent also took on a more defensive, threatening note. Without so much as turning around, Sherlock was able to vividly picture John targeting each and every alpha in his cross-hairs to make it clear who his omega belonged to.

Just before they reached the door to Lestrade's office, Sally Donovan stepped out of a side corridor and waved them over. Sherlock stopped short and glanced through the glass wall to Lestrade, but he just nodded wearily in Sally's direction before returning his focus to the papers on his desk.

"Sally," Sherlock said in lieu of a greeting, and pointed at John. "You already know my alpha, John Watson."

"Er… yeah, all right. Probably better that you brought him along."

They walked together to the lift and rode down one floor to get to the secured interview rooms. They stopped in front of a solid iron door labelled 03, which was guarded by an armed beta wearing full-body armour.

"He doesn't want me in there – just you. That was Moran's explicit condition. He's already in there. I've checked his handcuffs again personally. It's safe. The cameras are running, and an audio recording is also being made so we can evaluate the interview later. The commissioner isn't exactly happy about the whole thing, but he's given the green light. I'll have an ID made up for Mr…"

"Doctor."

"For Doctor Watson so the other officers don't take him for a reporter. Won't take but a minute, then I'll bring him back down," Donovan said.

Sherlock turned toward John and tried to let him know with a look that everything was fine and nothing bad would happen. It was just a conversation, not an armed confrontation.

The tension was easy to see in the rigid line of John's shoulders and jaw, and the constant opening and closing of his left fist. His eyes darted beseechingly back and forth between Sherlock's, but finally he squared his shoulders and nodded. Without losing another unnecessary word over it, he turned on his heel and followed Donovan down the hall in the direction they'd come from.

Sherlock grasped the handle and opened the door to interrogation room 03.

*

Sebastian Moran looked almost the same as the first time they'd met. His shoulder-length hair was a little more stringy and hung down over his face in unkempt strands. The dark rings under his eyes had deepened, and the frantic look in his dilated pupils reflected a combination of fear and thinly veiled anger. He'd been given a jumper that was too big for him, as he hadn't been wearing anything more than a t-shirt when he'd run off. His right hand looked like it had been bandaged by a professional.

Sherlock sat down across from the young man, with nothing but the metal table between them. The chain between Sebastian's handcuffs was threaded through a ring mounted on the tabletop. His hands lay flat on the cool metal surface. His fingernails were red where they had been chewed down to the quick, and several scratches – both old and new, all likely self-inflicted – marred his pale skin. He looked exhausted, almost tormented – which wasn't surprising given the circumstances.

"Sebastian Moran: you wanted to speak with me," Sherlock said, crossing one leg over the other underneath the table. His was still wearing his jacket, the collar still flipped up the way he usually did with his coat – but that was still at the cleaners. He knew that this style usually gave him a lofty air that tended to intimidate people. However, the jacket didn't quite have the same effect. Sebastian took in Sherlock's appearance with barely concealed curiosity, and nodded absently. It took several long seconds for him to look his fill before he zeroed in on Sherlock's face.

"What's your name?"

"William," Sherlock said promptly. He didn't think it appropriate to give a suspected murderer his name, but he wanted to avoid being caught in a direct lie. Strictly speaking, William was the first of his three given names, even if it wasn't the one he usually went by.

"Will – iii – aaam," Sebastian repeated, drawing each syllable out to an unnatural length. "Almost too pedestrian for such an extraordinary omega as you." He tilted his head to one side as if to inspect Sherlock from another angle, then took a deep breath although he didn't comment on what he smelled.

"What's it like to live in a household with five other omegas all bonded to the same alpha?" Sherlock asked after they'd sat in silence for a while.

Sebastian shrugged. "Messy."

"As far as I'm aware, you were barely eighteen when he bonded with you. Were you his first omega?" Sherlock asked.

"I'm sure that's all in my file. Polybonding isn't some secret thing, merely unusual – for most people. I'm honestly not the one here who has something interesting to tell, William."

Sherlock cocked one eyebrow superciliously, not certain what Sebastian was getting at.

"How is it that you're working together with the police? As far as I know, the force consists mainly of alphas with a few betas here and there. But omegas… omegas aren't considered trustworthy. Jobs with any prestige are denied them. What did you do to get them to accept someone like you? Or is it not like that at all, and you just happened to be in the right place at the right time?" the young man asked at such a rapid-fire pace that even Sherlock began to be confused.

Sebastian had obviously used the time in his cell to think about the questions he wanted to ask Sherlock – in case he really did work for the Yard.

"I've collaborated with the Yard on and off for several years. As a kind of… consulting detective," Sherlock explained briefly.

"Consulting detective? What does that mean?"

"It means when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me."

Sebastian laughed. "Consult? Alphas? I can't imagine they let an omega tell them anything!"

"It took a while until they accepted me, that's true. Some still don't. But I've been able to convince a few of them with my excellent performance. They don't care whether I'm an alpha, beta, or omega. All that counts for them is the results," Sherlock declared.

Sebastian listened to the explanation with great interest, unconsciously assuming the same position as Sherlock: he crossed his legs, leaned back in the uncomfortable folding chair, and placed his hands on top of each other. Due to the handcuffs, he didn't have enough freedom of movement to fold them in front of his chest; for that reason, Sherlock leaned forward, placed his elbows on the table, interlocked his fingers, and watched Sebastian with open curiosity.

"Alphas are rarely interested in much more than gratifying their own urges. I've heard what happened at my house – and I'm not even surprised. I knew Anastasia would be going into heat soon – nothing was going to stop that." As expected, Sebastian mimicked Sherlock's pose a short while later.

"Augustus injured three officers, and two others got hurt in the fracas; no one knows yet how Anastasia is," Sherlock said, attempting to generate some sympathy in the other omega, but Sebastian merely shrugged again.

"Well, you know how it is… During a heat, you're just glad to have your alpha there – _if_ they're there – no matter whether the world outside is going to hell in a handbasket or not. Even if you hate them, even if it hurts… even if you can barely move several days later…" Sebastian's voice had grown softer and his gaze got lost somewhere in the distance. As soon as he'd stopped speaking, however, his head popped up and his eyes bored into Sherlock's.

"I didn't kill them, William! I don't have it in me. Look at me!" the omega roared suddenly.

"You seemed to know exactly what you were doing when you attacked the woman in the lane," Sherlock said, sounding almost bored.

"I was scared! A horde of alphas was after me because I was supposedly acting suspicious. All I wanted was to find out what was happening in the next building over. What's so wrong with that?!" Sebastian tossed his hands in the air, but his arms were restrained by the chain between the handcuffs, and he had to lower them again.

Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin and returned the omega's gaze coolly. "But why were you scared? Your scent was so weak I didn't catch a whiff of it until I was within a few metres. Why should the alphas have been after you, of all people? Especially if you were innocent? A bonded omega on top of it?"

Sebastian lifted his shoulders again and looked off to the side, as if he had to think about the question before answering it. When he looked at Sherlock again, however, he looked anything but uncertain. "It's easy enough to find drugs that can manipulate omega biology these days."

Sherlock was barely able to suppress a grin. "That's true. I'm quite familiar with the way Seven works, however, and I know full well that it doesn't influence the user's scent."

"Seven… yeah, about that. The composition of Seven used to be different, but these days… things have progressed quite a bit. You don't seem to have kept up with developments very well. Maybe you never needed to influence your bond with your alpha to distance yourself from them. But there are others who want just that," Sebastian explained with a touch of arrogance. As if he'd discovered something he was better in than Sherlock.

Sherlock considered briefly how far he could push things without wading into trouble, but decided it was probably the best way to get any kind of useful information out of the omega.

"Who did you get the Seven from?" he asked.

"Me? Never used it."

"You just implied you'd manipulated your scent with it. Did you use another drug?"

Sebastian looked down at his folded hands, caught out. His eyes darted back and forth nervously as if he needed to run back through the last part of their exchange to find where he'd slipped up.

"I… took it the first time a few days ago," he said after a few seconds.

"Seven?" Sherlock prompted again.

"Yeah…"

"To conceal your scent and weaken the bond with your alpha? As far as I know, that's generally what the drug is used for." After several more seconds, in which Sebastian frantically searched for a response, Sherlock added: "Or so you wouldn't have to sense Anastasia'a heat? Do you feel it when he sleeps with the other omegas?"

Sebastian pressed his lips together so hard that the blood was forced out of them completely. His eyes flitted across the floor of the tiny room as if seeking an anchor point. His scent took on a bitter, rotten note. _Bingo_.

"I'd really like to know which of the components can alter your scent. I've been working on a substance to suppress omega pheromones for quite a while now. If I'd had my breakthrough earlier, I wouldn't have had to bond with an alpha at all!"

"Breakthrough?" Sebastian said, licking his dry, cracked lips.

"Naturally," Sherlock fibbed. "It completely obscures an omega's scent. Even during a heat, the pheromones can be minimised to such an extent that they're virtually undetectable. Not even by an alpha who has scented the omega before."

"That's impossible!" Sebastian declared, but the thirsty glow in his eyes and the lemony scent wafting off him were unmistakeable.

"Not for me! I purchased a batch of Seven from an extremely talented chemist a few years back. It was such a good blend that my alpha completely forgot about me. I would have liked to work with the creator to share my discovery and create an effective pheromone blocker for both bonded and unbonded omegas. Just think what that would mean… for _us_! Unfortunately, I was never able to find him. Funnily enough, his name was also Sebastian, but then it's not that uncommon a name."

"Why are you telling me all this?" Sebastian asked dubiously.

But this time Sherlock copied him, and shrugged. "I'm just an omega, with no authority to conduct a real interview. But I thought a little small talk would be just the thing."

"No authority?"

"No, anything you say to me is completely useless in a court of law, since I don't have an official position at the Yard; I only take on assignments as a consulting detective. In other words, I'm not a cop, and I don't report to anyone."

Sebastian bared his teeth and leapt to his feet. The folding chair tottered and fell back against the wall, which stood barely half a metre behind him. It clattered loudly when it tilted forward again.

"You're nothing special after all! You're a phony! Consulting detective – don't make me laugh! Do you really think you can trick me with some made-up title?" He let his gaze wander over Sherlock from head to foot, looking disgusted. "You think you're going to get somewhere with your little experiments, but in the end you're just some floozy being passed around from one alpha to another, aren't you? You're not worth any more than that!"

Sherlock observed the omega's tantrum closely before rising to his feet to look him in the eye. The figure before him was trembling with fury. Sherlock gave him a thorough once-over before turning away. He paused at the door and turned back to Sebastian.

"I'm sorry for what he did to you. But projecting your own problems onto me won't help your situation. What I told you about my work was true, with the exception of the pheromone blocker. You said yourself it's impossible, but at the same time you're so insecure and desperate for a solution that you'll grasp at even the thinnest of straws. It's very nearly depressing to see how similar the two of us are… Do let me know if you ever want to continue our conversation!"

And with those words, Sherlock left the room.

+++

tbc


	25. Chapter 25

With mixed feelings, John followed the beta policewoman back the way they'd just come a few minutes earlier. He had a bad feeling about Sherlock being left alone in a room with a potential serial killer. Even though he himself kept pointing out that Moran's guilt hadn't been proven yet – the omega might still be extremely dangerous and cold-blooded.

Back upstairs, he was led into a room where another beta police officer took down his details and photographed him. The procedure was probably no less complicated than being arrested, John thought to himself. The only thing they left out was taking his fingerprints. Finally, John was sent back out into the hall, where he was supposed to wait for Donovan and his visitor's ID.

He paced up and down the corridor, exasperated and full of nervous energy. He kept clenching his left hand into a fist to release his tension until he heard someone approaching. Expecting to see Donovan, John turned around and found himself blinking into the tired face of DI Lestrade instead. The alpha offered John his hand, which he grasped and shook after a moment's hesitation.

"John, good to see you."

"Greg," John said, eyeing the dark circles under Lestrade's eyes warily. He still didn't quite trust the other alpha or his intentions, but he was willing to set aside his jealousy for Sherlock's sake. Or at least he wanted to try. However, the policeman didn't look like much in the way of competition today. On the contrary, the alpha appeared to be completely exhausted, his face ashen.

"Don't take this the wrong way, but you look terrible. When was the last time you slept?"

"No idea. What day is it? Monday? Tuesday?" Lestrade shrugged and tried to conceal a yawn. "Doesn't matter. I won't be able to sleep peacefully until this whole mess has been sorted and the noose is off my neck. After all, it's my case being driven straight into a ditch. You cannot begin to imagine how furious I am."

John took a good look at the grim-looking alpha, his anger not only visible in his expression but also reflected in the composition of his scent. The normally confidence-inspiring aromas of tobacco and leather now smelled sour and ominous. John pushed his tongue up against his hard palate and rubbed his nose discreetly.

"Oh, believe me. I can," John said, empathising with Greg's frustration. "What the hell happened anyway? That can't be the first time you've had to enter a house full of omegas."

Lestrade checked the hallway around them, then nodded to John to indicate that he should follow him. Together, they moved away from the open office door and huddled in an alcove at the end of the corridor. Greg began to speak in a low voice.

"Listen. What I'm about to say stays between us. I can't force you not to spill to the press, I'm just asking you to keep it to yourself. But I think you should know... especially because of Sherlock. If you don't want him working with us anymore, you have my full understanding."

John blinked at Greg, nonplussed. He wanted to make it clear that it wasn't up to him whether Sherlock worked at the Yard, but the DI was already taking a deep breath, as if mentally steeling himself before saying what was on his mind. He then began to speak.

"Those idiots had explicit instructions from me. Unfortunately, I had to participate in a press conference and couldn't ride along to supervise the troops. But the directive was very clear and simple: one group was to pick Moran up from the aero port, and the other was to _wait_ for both him and myself to arrive. And what did those twits do? They marched straight into the suspect's house. A house full of omegas, one in heat. Even though they were all specifically informed of the situation!"

"Fuck..."

"You can say that again. One of my detectives... Bloody hell, John. He went and... He was already halfway inside the omega before another officer was able to intervene. That's when Moran showed up. You can paint your own picture of what happened next."

John gaped at Greg, aghast. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. A police officer had _raped_ an omega in heat. There was no other way to describe or prettify the atrocity. No wonder Moran had flipped out. Pure rage coursed through John's body, and he had to muster all of his willpower not to let it out on Greg. The thought of the risk which Sherlock – _his_omega – was exposed to on a regular basis instigated a roiling nausea in his stomach.

"How could something like that happen?" John hissed between clenched teeth. "You use scent blockers, don't you?"

"Or course we do. But Hopkins... No idea who he was trying to prove something to by going without the blocker. The blockhead thought his bond with his omega was strong enough and he wouldn't be affected by anyone else. He always blagged something about having a soul bond, when he doesn't have shite. Only an overinflated ego and a disciplinary investigation he's dragged the whole Yard into."

"A _soul bond_?!"

"Yeah, I know!" Greg shrugged helplessly. "Romantic drivel. Or maybe not. What do I know? I definitely didn't have one with the ex."

"Ex?" John asked automatically as he tried to process all of the swirling thoughts and information Greg had dumped on him in such a short time.

"Yeah, we dissolved our bond."

John looked up in surprise. Of course he knew that alpha-omega bonds were sometimes dissolved, but it was extremely rare. He'd never actually met an alpha – much less an omega – who had dissolved their bond.

"Wow, that's not something you hear every day."

Greg took John's obvious astonishment with good humour and nodded with a crooked grin.

"Yeah, we were probably just too young when we bonded. We'd known each other all our lives: typical girl-and-boy next door thing. We were kissing and making out before Rebekka had even had her first heat. Us spending it together and then bonding..." Greg shrugged again. "It just seemed logical, and our families expected it. But it never quite felt right. Not for either of us. Our bond was unusually weak."

"Sorry to hear that," John murmured sincerely.

"Don't be. We gave it a good go – couples getaways, therapy... Even worked our way through that stupid bestseller self-help book from cover to cover. Wasn't meant to be. When she started cheating on me, and then sharing her heats with other alphas, it was clear we couldn't stay together any longer. I didn't even care that she was with other people. The dissolution of our bond was more or less just signing the paperwork. Don't get me wrong: the physical severance of a bond is no walk in the park, and your hormones go on the roller coaster ride of your life, but in the end we were just relieved to be separated."

John squeezed his hand into a fist and took a deep breath, which he then let out noisily. The mere thought of Sherlock spending his heat with another alpha made John seethe with jealousy. He peered at Greg suspiciously, trying to glean from the policeman's bearing why he had shared such intimate details from his private life with John.

Was he trying to drop a hint that he was going to try to woo Sherlock, as an unbonded alpha? Was this seemingly friendly conversation a subliminal threat? An indirect attack on John's territory?

Greg tilted his head to one side in confusion and sniffed the air. Bewilderment, anger, scorn, and amusement paraded across his face in quick succession, until he finally threw his head back and laughed out loud.

"You're still wondering whether I might be interested in your omega? No worries, mate. That will never happen. Sure, the hothead's important to me. And yes, I care about his wellbeing. But I'm only _taking_ an interest in him; I'm not interested _in him_, if that makes sense. Sherlock's more like a kid brother to me, and I'm glad he's got his alpha with him. He went through so much when the two of you were apart. Even if he'd never admit how much he suffered. I hope you'll give him the stability and security he needs. God knows he can use it."

Relief chased away the green-eyed monster of jealousy. It was probably about time to start trusting Greg Lestrade, and not see him as merely a potential rival or bagman for Sherlock. Plus, the alpha had never tried to gain Sherlock's affections while John had been away. In fact, Lestrade was the one who had saved Sherlock's life, and John owed him rather a lot.

"Mycroft will be happy to see his brother securely in an alpha's hands after all this time," Greg said, breaking into John's thoughts.

"Mycroft?" John echoed with surprise.

"Yeah," Greg said. "He's constantly worrying about Sherlock. Which is no wonder, when you consider how young the two of them were when they lost their parents. In addition to Sherlock being... well... you know how he is. Mycroft didn't have it easy."

"I had no idea you and Mycroft knew each other so well."

Greg shrugged nonchalantly. "Just sort of happened, what with the both of us keeping an eye on your omega's wellbeing when you were incommunicado."

The dig didn't escape John's notice, but what caught his attention much more was the shift in certain nuances in Greg's scent composition. The bitterness had almost entirely disappeared, and in its place, John smelled vigilance. What was even more interesting, however, was the faint whiff of ice crystals. It smelled like the sky just before the first snowfall.

*

John wasn't able to reflect on his strange observation any further, since Donovan arrived with his visitor ID, and Sherlock returned from his interview just a short while later.

The omega provided a rapid-fire summary of the interrogation. However, there wasn't all that much to report: Moran had denied the accusations and continued to insist on his innocence. The police would go through the entire video of the interview anyway, since it had been recorded. After that, Sherlock had asked for permission to speak to the surviving omegas. Although John knew he would have made contact with them even without express permission from the Yard, the official authorisation was certainly appropriate, especially in light of the current precarious state of the investigation.

A short while later, John found himself sitting in a taxi heading toward Hyde Park.

"Where are we going?" he asked, watching his omega's pensive profile.

"To see Jean-Baptiste Martin. The omega of the third victim, Hector Martin."

"Why do you want to talk to him? Do you think he might be helpful in tracking down the killer?"

Sherlock clasped his hands as if in prayer and rested his chin on top of them. Several heartbeats passed before he responded.

"I'm not sure yet what I expect to find. But I can't shake the feeling that Sebastian Moran is connected in some way with these murders. No matter how much he tries to deny it. There's something fishy about him. And I'm afraid the omegas are involved somehow."

Such a direct statement hit John hard. Sherlock had already explained back at St Bart's lab that the omegas had become suspects when they took Seven, but John had been too caught up in his own personal agony at the time to understand the far-reaching consequences of that fact. He gazed out the window, lost in thought, and considered what might make an omega wish for their alpha's death, or at least to accept it as a possible outcome. For what? Drugs? But that didn't make any sense.

Before John could restart their conversation, the taxi pulled up at their destination. They were outside a magnificent townhouse with a typical brickwork facade and wrought-iron balconies. A glance at the nameplate next to the doorbell revealed that there were four flats in the house, and the one on the top floor was occupied by the Martins.

"Does he know we're coming?" John asked, after Sherlock had rung the bell and the buzzer sounded to let them in.

"I hope not," Sherlock said with a crooked grin. "There's not much as informative as the element of surprise."

John smirked and followed Sherlock up the stairs to the second floor. There was no lift, so the killer must have taken this path both to and from the flat. The murder of Hector Martin had taken place late in the afternoon in a block of flats in the middle of London. No one had seen or heard anything suspicious. The killer must have either had bloody good luck, or been extremely skilled.

The omega stood in the doorway of the Martins' flat, watching the new arrivals approach with a suspicious eye. He was approximately as tall as Sherlock, and of a similar build. His coffee-coloured skin stood in stark contrast to his piercing green eyes, and lent him an exotic air. Jean-Baptiste Martin was an extremely attractive omega, and yet something essential was missing – the characteristic omega scent was barely discernible. John could just make out a whiff of magnolia.

"What do you want?" the omega asked, eyeing Sherlock and especially John with mistrust.

At John's side, Sherlock collapsed in on himself slightly, let his shoulders droop and somehow made himself appear smaller than he was. His entire demeanour changed in a fraction of a second from self-assured to demure. He smiled shyly at the other omega and introduced himself and John as consultants from the Yard, asking to be let in so he could run through a few questions.

Impressed by such brazenness, John followed Sherlock's fabrications as they fell easily from his lips, all sounding perfectly plausible. He mentioned the monstrous accusations against Scotland Yard, which, he insinuated, the man must have heard of in news reports. Sherlock spoke of the urgent need for damage control, and that he – a fellow omega – had been sent to ascertain that Jean-Baptiste had received impeccable treatment at the hands of any alpha officers. Sherlock presented his secondary mission as checking up on whether Jean-Baptiste had anything new to add to his statement.

Visibly caught off guard by the unmatched pair which included an actual _omega_ consultant from Scotland Yard, Jean-Baptiste stepped aside to let John and Sherlock enter. After a brief hesitation, he led them into a spacious living room, where they took seats around a glass dining table. Everything was neat as a pin. Every cushion on the sofa was precisely placed and fluffed. There wasn't a speck of dust to be found, and the table had been polished to a streak-free shine. Yet even here, the near total lack of omega scent in the flat was conspicuous.

"I didn't have much contact with any alphas from the Yard. And I've already told the police everything I know," the omega grumbled in John's direction, pursing his lips. "As I'm sure you already know, I was in the hospital for quite a while after... I really can't tell you anything else."

The timbre of the man's voice was accented, although John couldn't make out its origin. Visibly nervous, Jean-Baptiste ran his hand through his short, cropped hair and regarded his visitors uncertainly.

"Creole?" Sherlock asked with a sweet smile that drew Jean-Baptiste's attention away from John, where it had no doubt instinctively been directed.

"Oui!" the man replied. "But you must have read that in my file?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No, but your accent has betrayed you. The French lilt together with the American speech patterns. Where are you from? Louisiana?"

The man nodded, nonplussed. "Baton Rouge."

"The Mississippi Delta must be simply gorgeous. The mangroves, the magnolias, the food and all the music. Don't you miss it?"

"Greatly." A pained expression flitted across his attractive face, and John felt an automatic desire to comfort the omega. At the same time, he sensed Sherlock tensing up beside him, and heard him quietly clearing his throat.

"How long have you been in London now?"

"Seven years. Since Monsieur Hector brought me over for the bond."

"Monsieur?" John asked, startled.

"Oui. My monsieur alpha wished me to address him that way, _monsieur_."

"John, please," John hurried to correct him. The last thing he wanted was to be addressed with an antiquated honorific, when the omega didn't seem to have any problem speaking to Sherlock as an equal.

"That would not be seemly, monsieur."

John shook his head, but was interrupted by Sherlock before he could launch into another response.

"Jean-Baptiste, where were you when your alpha was murdered?"

"You must know that already. I have told the police everything!"

"Of course, but I'd like to hear the story from you. Not from police reports, written by _alphas_."

Taken aback by the disgust audible in the last word, John lifted one eyebrow although he didn't dare to question Sherlock's methods. Instead, he leaned back and waited to hear the omega's story, his curiosity piqued. Unlike Sherlock, John didn't know the details of what had happened.

"But what about monsieur here?" The man indicated John with a tilt of his head. "He's also an alpha."

"Yes," Sherlock agreed, "but he's only here for my protection. I also needed to go to the Yard today, and I didn't feel safe there. You can trust us."

Jean-Baptiste sighed softly and nodded. "Eh bien, I was at the yoga studio."

"You attend classes regularly, don't you? If the killer was keeping tabs on you, could he be certain you wouldn't be home at that time?"

"Oui. I go three times a week. Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Monsieur Hector insisted I maintain a fit physique."

"Was the same true of him?" Sherlock asked, struggling to suppress a sarcastic smirk.

Jean-Baptiste raised his eyebrows at Sherlock, returning the thin-lipped smile. John had the impression that the two omegas shared a secret he wasn't privy to. But then Jean-Baptiste shook his head and pointed at something behind John.

"Non, I cannot confirm that."

Curious, John turned around and discovered a photograph hanging on the wall behind him. He stood up, intrigued, to observe it from close up. It looked like a classic wedding shot, and he recognised Jean-Baptiste, who was gazing bashfully into the camera. The omega's hair was longer and tightly curled, his soft features younger and innocent, almost childishly naïve. Beside him stood a large, heavyset man with his meaty paw resting possessively on the omega's narrow shoulders. John couldn't help fancying that he saw something brutish glittering in the man's small, pig-like eyes.

"I haven't expressed my condolences on the loss of your alpha yet. How have you been handling it? I imagine it must be terrible."

"Merci," answered the omega softly. "It was awful at first. But it has gotten easier."

"How did the two of you meet?" John asked impulsively. He was still looking at the photograph of the lopsided couple. Something prickled at the back of his neck, and he felt strongly that the two omegas were staring at him. When he turned around, Jean-Baptiste quickly lowered his eyes and looked down at his intertwined fingers in his lap.

"My family is poor, monsieur."

"So?" John frowned with annoyance when the omega didn't continue. It was as if the vague statement were supposed to answer John's question.

"Money was exchanged to facilitate the bond, John."

"That's... that..."

"Be that as it may," Sherlock cut him off and returned his focus to Jean-Baptiste. "What happened when your alpha died?"

The omega shrugged. "I cannot say with any degree of certainty. I was in the middle of performing the sun salutation and then – nothing. The next thing I remember is coming to in the hospital and being told my alpha was dead. That was three days after he was killed."

"How did you feel? How did you deal with the broken bond? I imagine it must have been simply horrible."

Even though Sherlock was playing a role for Jean-Baptiste's benefit, and John was more than impressed with his acting talent, it was clear that there was a certain genuineness to the question. Hoping to lower his omega's stress level a little – and also to reassure himself of his partner's presence – John returned to the table and sat down next to Sherlock. Jean-Baptiste placed his hands on the tabletop and nervously picked at a hangnail on his thumb.

"I managed somehow. It's… Monsieur Hector was… I…"

"Yes?" Sherlock prompted with an atypical gentleness in his voice.

"He was a big man. Not nice. Selfish. Rough. Une brute. My heats were irregular, and too infrequent for his taste. He didn't like it when I turned him away. You must be familiar with this?" The omega glanced beseechingly at Sherlock, then returned his gaze to the table. "It... it hurts without the essence... and... I'm not sad that the bond is broken, okay? The first few weeks were hard, but I figured out what to do."

"Seven?"

The omega looked up in alarm, his eyes darting from one side to the other, then back at Sherlock. He stood up so suddenly that his chair skidded back on the wooden floor. John automatically straightened his spine and tensed his entire body to be prepared to move if it became necessary.

"I have no idea what you're talking about!" the omega hissed.

"The bruises on your arms – where are they from? Are you still using? Do you need to take Seven regularly to cope with the broken bond, or can you handle it without it now? Who's your dealer?"

Jean-Baptiste frantically tugged the long sleeves of his thin jumper even further down until they were practically touching his fingertips, not answering a single one of Sherlock's questions.

"I think you should leave." He abruptly walked out of the room, not waiting to see whether John or Sherlock was following him.

"That doesn't seem to have been very helpful," John muttered.

"Oh, on the contrary." Sherlock grinned and stood as well. "Come, John."

Jean-Baptiste stood in the front hall with his arms crossed, his hips leaning against a dresser, and shot his visitors a disgruntled look.

"How much of your supply is left, Jean-Baptiste?" Sherlock asked with fake cheerfulness.

The omega pressed his lips together and dug his fingers into his biceps.

"I only ask because it might be that your source has dried up. If your dealer's name is Sebastian, I see troubled times ahead..."

Panic flared in the omega's green eyes, and for a fraction of a second, his gaze flickered to the topmost drawer of the dresser he was leaning on.

"May I?" Sherlock purred, and simply pushed the baffled omega aside. He pulled open the drawer with a flourish and withdrew four small vials after a brief rummage. He crowed in triumph while the other omega cried out with anguish. John resisted the temptation to hold out a hand to provide the other man with some support as he clenched the wood of the dresser and glared daggers at Sherlock with tear-soaked eyes.

"Put it back. I need it!"

Sherlock ignored Jean-Baptiste as he turned the small bottles around, flipped them over, and shook them. He held one up against the ceiling lamp to inspect it, examining the silvery liquid inside. Finally, he put three full ampoules back and slipped the fourth, partially used one into the pocket of his suit jacket.

"I'm going to find out what you had to do with these murders," Sherlock hissed as he breezed past Jean-Baptiste, grabbed John by the arm, and left the flat.

*

Later that evening, John found himself still thinking about how impressed he was with Sherlock. His omega had been simply brilliant. Both with his thespian talent and with his quick thinking. John had no idea how Sherlock had found out where the drugs were hidden so quickly, and it hadn't even hurt his feelings when Sherlock had rolled his eyes good-naturedly and murmured, "It was obvious."

After the conclusion of their visit with the other omega, they'd returned to Baker Street. Sherlock had immediately begun to study the contents of the phial, taking just a short break for dinner, which John had whipped up from the meagre leftovers in the refrigerator.

It was now nearly midnight, and John was just leaving the bathroom after showering and cleaning his teeth. He took a detour into the kitchen to say good-night to Sherlock, who was still sitting behind his microscope, conducting a series of inscrutable tests. John carefully placed one hand on Sherlock's shoulder, so as not to startle him.

"I'm going to bed. Don't stay up too long, okay?"

Sherlock made a vague sound and nodded absently as John leaned down and pressed a kiss onto his dark curls. Then John went into his own room up on the second floor. He'd briefly considered whether he should get into Sherlock's bed again, but decided against it in the end. He felt that would be too forward; after all, he hadn't been invited to share the bed a second time.

John was therefore that much more surprised when he heard the stairs creaking a short while later, followed by the sound of Sherlock knocking hesitantly on his door.

"Come in," John called out, setting aside the book he'd been reading. Sherlock padded barefoot into the room.

John smiled and lifted the cover to indicate that Sherlock was welcome. Visibly relieved, Sherlock returned the smile, slipped out of his dressing gown, and scooted onto the mattress next to John. He immediately cuddled up to John, resting his head on his chest.

"Hey," John murmured, sliding one hand into Sherlock's soft curls so he could gently scratch his scalp. "Nice to have you here."

"Is it? I wasn't sure... You weren't in my room, and I..." Sherlock stopped speaking and moved closer to John's face.

"I didn't know whether you wanted us to sleep together again tonight. Or whether you would even go to bed." John chuckled softly and dropped an affectionate kiss onto Sherlock's forehead. "But I'm glad you came up."

Sherlock sighed happily and started to rub John's arm. First along the lower, bare half of his arm, then over his t-shirt on his upper arm, until he finally let his fingers wander underneath the edge of the quarter-sleeve and stroke John's bicep. Goosebumps made the fine hairs there stand on end, causing a pleasant shiver to run through John's body. Being so close to Sherlock, smelling his intoxicating scent, feeling the heat from his body – it all made him feel calm and cosy, and created a happy sensation in his stomach.

"Did you find anything?" John inquired after a period of relaxed silence.

The dark, curly head shook a negative response. "Not much yet. The vial definitely contains Seven. But the composition's different somehow than it was in my day. I haven't yet been able to identify the components."

John stiffened automatically, prompting Sherlock to press up against him even closer. Barely a sheet of paper would have fit between them, yet it still didn't seem to be close enough for either of them. Sherlock insinuated one leg between John's thighs, slung the other over John's hip, and virtually clung to him.

John slid his other hand – the one not occupied with combing through Sherlock's curls – underneath Sherlock's t-shirt. He rubbed his thumb in tender circles over the scar of their bond. What he really wanted to do was worship it with his lips and tongue, but in order to do that he would have had to disentangle himself from their embrace, and he wasn't ready to do that yet. He also didn't know whether Sherlock even wanted something like that.

There was so much still unspoken between them. He didn't know what he was permitted to do, where Sherlock's limits lay, what was allowed or not. Just as he was about to claim Sherlock's lips with his for a kiss, the omega began to speak.

"I feel sorry for Jean-Baptiste."

John grunted an affirmative. He also felt deeply sorry for the omega, for a variety of reasons. "I was shocked that his alpha more or less bought him. I thought human trafficking was illegal," he growled.

Sherlock barked out a joyless laugh. "Yes, but if you call it a reverse dowry, it doesn't sound quite as bad."

"He bought himself a sex slave, didn't he?"

"Hmhm," Sherlock said. "Hector Martin had already 'run through' two omegas before Jean-Baptiste. The first died in a household accident. The second from a massive infection stemming from inadequate convalescence following a heat. I'm not certain that Martin was entirely innocent in either death. But there was never an investigation opened against him."

"That's horrible!" John whispered, aghast, dropping random kisses on Sherlock's head, hair, and forehead. "No wonder Jean-Baptiste didn't shed many tears over him. Although I'm still not convinced he actually had anything to do with the murder. That just seems too far-fetched."

Sherlock shrugged with one shoulder, giving no further response. It was clear he didn't want to discuss the topic any more just then.

They lay together for a long time, caressing the spots they could reach from their tight embrace, each pursuing his own thoughts. At some point, just as John was on the cusp of falling asleep, Sherlock quietly cleared his throat.

"Does it always hurt?"

"What do you mean?" John asked with a yawn.

"Sex. Does it always hurt outside of a heat?"

John loosened his grip on Sherlock and moved back a little so that he could prop himself up on his elbow and look his omega in the face. "What makes you think that?" he asked gently.

Sherlock lowered his eyes, as if unable to meet John's gaze. "Jean-Baptiste said so, and I think Sebastian implied it as well."

"Hey, hey. Sherlock, please look at me." John tenderly crooked his finger under Sherlock's chin and lifted it up. "Of course it doesn't have to hurt. It just needs thorough preparation. An alpha penis is... well... big. But that's what foreplay is for, and lube – lots of it! As well as a lot of time and patience. Why are you even asking?"

Sherlock's eyes appeared nearly black, boring into John's in the faint light from the lamp on the nightstand. John watched, enthralled, as Sherlock licked his lips, moistening them. Then he closed the gap between them and pressed his mouth onto John's.

"Would you want that? Outside of a heat?" John asked between two or three tender kisses, before their tongues met.

"I don't know. Maybe..."

+++

tbc


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heed the tags!

Sherlock kissed John again and again. His head was filled with questions that demanded answers, yet in order to pursue them he would have to pull away, and that was the last thing he wanted to do. He still couldn't quite believe how much he'd missed feeling John's lips on his through all those years. His heart raced with the excitement of being able to now, with his alpha's consent.

John seemed to feel similarly. There was no hesitation as he returned the kisses, holding Sherlock close to his chest and stroking his back, neck, and shoulders.

Sherlock couldn't help noticing that John was avoiding any more intimate parts of his body, not even trying to seek a path underneath his layers of clothing to establish skin contact. That was probably because of their previous conversation about Jean-Baptiste and Hector Martin, whose relationship appeared to have been far from consensual and healthy.

Yet another omega who had been mistreated by their alpha...

It seemed that happened with much greater frequency than Sherlock had thought – even though he himself was sceptical of regular alpha-omega relationships. He didn't have any statistics handy that might give him more precise information on the topic of domestic violence, but he didn't think they would reflect the true state of affairs anyway. Most omegas with that kind of problem probably avoided going public, especially since any institutions that would be involved (police, hospitals, solicitors) were almost all run by alphas. Alphas who wanted to uphold the status quo and put omegas in their place.

Omegas were all alone; all they had was each other.

Sherlock broke apart from John with a gasp of surprise, staring into the darkness of the room.

_All they had was each other..._

Might that mean that the killer – if it really was an omega – was trying to help other omegas? Had they all been in a situation as complicated as Jean-Baptiste's? And would that mean that they all had some connection to each other? Or was the killer enacting some kind of vigilante justice?

"What's wrong?" John asked in a low voice. He had stopped caressing Sherlock and loosened his grip on him. His curiosity was evident in his expression.

Sherlock pushed himself up and drew his knees in so that he could sit. "I need to know what the other omegas' relationships with their alphas were like, and whether they were also mistreated."

John scooted up to the top of the bed and leaned against the headboard. "Do you think they were killed for revenge? Because they abused their omegas?"

"That would be a motive, at any rate. But I can't imagine that the killer has been watching every single omega in the city to find out which one of them might be victimised by their alpha. That would be an impossible undertaking."

"So they must have had contact before... Maybe a rival?"

"Unlikely. It might explain _one_ murder, but not six."

"Unless it was a polybonder," John murmured, although his tone of voice indicated that he only meant it as a joke.

Sherlock looked up in surprise. "An alpha who frees omegas from an insufferable situation in order to bond with them themselves afterwards?"

John shrugged uncertainly. "No idea how common polybonds are. Lord Moran's the first person I've known who had one."

Sherlock clambered out of bed and was already on his way to the door when John called to him: "Where are you going?"

"I need to look up a few things."

"Aren't you tired?"

"With so many unanswered questions? I couldn't even sleep now if you gave me morphine! I have a case to solve, John."

With those words, Sherlock opened the door and hurried down the stairs.

*

Sherlock spent the whole night collecting information about the deceased alphas and their omegas, looking for connections between them, creating charts, and making lists of possible murder motives. The wall above the couch was peppered with colourful notes, print-outs, and red strings tracing various possible connections.

He still hadn't found any concrete solutions – there wasn't enough evidence for that – but at least he'd managed to gain extensive insights into how the various homicides must have taken place, depending on whether the killer was an alpha or an omega.

Many of the aspects spoke in favour of an alpha, as first-degree murder required not only a great deal of physical strength and a certain amount of coldbloodedness which was simply not ascribed to most omegas, but also because some technical or at least mechanical knowledge was necessary to have gained entry to the different types of buildings without setting off any alarm systems or drawing the attention of the neighbours. Knowledge which the majority of the omega population didn't possess, or only in rudimentary amounts, according to a wide range of statistics.

Just as Sherlock heard John coming down the stairs, his phone rang. Sergeant Donovan's name appeared on the screen. Sherlock answered it, turning to face the jam-packed wall.

"Good morning, Sergeant. Any news?"

"I was just informed a few minutes ago that Lord Moran turned up at St Bart's to see to his omega who was attacked – Anastasia Moran." Sherlock heard Donovan draw in a laboured breath, as if she needed to collect herself before continuing. "She's not doing well at all. I spoke briefly to one of the doctors, and..." Donovan cut herself off, trying to find the words to express what she wanted to say, before exhaling a long, drawn-out sigh.

"Can I see her?" Sherlock asked when the silence extended.

"Not at the moment, but I've set a meeting with her physician for this afternoon to take her statement. It would be helpful for them to see that we respect omegas, and are actively working with one. The whole thing will be monitored by a third-party observer, due to the investigation. Alphas aren't allowed in – not surprising given the circumstances."

Sherlock grunted. He wasn't surprised that Donovan wanted him there specifically: after all, he'd been working the case for a long time, and he was fairly well acquainted with the Yard's procedure – at least superficially. In addition, she'd always been an omega supporter and had good reason to believe that Sherlock wasn't going to make her life more difficult that it already was – which couldn't exactly be said of an alpha.

"When should I be there?" Sherlock asked. He turned to John, who had just entered the living room and was staring at the wall with rounded eyes. A small smile tugged at the corner of Sherlock's mouth at the sight.

"I'll pick you up between two and three o'clock, if that suits."

Sherlock confirmed the time and ended the call.

"Good morning," he said to John.

"Hey... were you up all night?"

They approached each other, enacting a by now well established ritual, and held each other close. A warm tingling sensation spread from the spot where John pressed his lips into the crook of Sherlock's neck – just a few centimetres from the bite mark – and pooled in his stomach.

"The time flew by," Sherlock replied, sucking in the scent of his alpha. The last bits of warmth from the bed glowed drowsily on his skin. "Sleep well?"

John shrugged and sniffed Sherlock's neck one more time before moving away. "I missed you. Have you had breakfast?"

"I believe you know the answer to that," Sherlock said with a smirk and went into the kitchen, where he filled the kettle and turned it on.

John stretched and yawned extensively, which caused the hem of his t-shirt to lift up far enough for a strip of skin to appear above the waist of his pyjamas. Sherlock's eyes were automatically drawn to the spot, utterly fascinated by the tiny golden hairs set off against the slightly darker background. He licked his lips and swallowed down the superfluous saliva that had collected in his mouth.

"What do you have on for today?" John asked, apparently oblivious to Sherlock staring.

"Donovan's going to pick me up later. We're going to see Anastasia Moran in the hospital," Sherlock said, briefly summarising the phone call with the sergeant for John.

"So the heat is over," John said, in lieu of a more suitable comment. The situation was simply too awful. "When will Lord Moran be questioned?"

"I don't know. I assume after Anastasia."

The hissing of the kettle became louder and louder until it turned into a frantic burbling and the device turned itself off.

*

His face ashen, Sherlock's eyes moved from the young woman's face to the few parts of her body which peeked out from beneath the papery hospital gown. Her hands and arms, upper chest, neck, and left cheek were covered in scratches and bruises. Her bottom lip was split in two places, as if someone had bit down and pulled hard on it. Another wound was hidden by a bandage on her head. There were dark circles under her eyes, her cheeks were sunken, her hair straggly and crusted with dried blood here and there.

Her entire body trembled as she quietly wept.

Donovan, although no less shocked than Sherlock, pushed herself into motion and slowly approached the bed. She spoke slowly, in a low voice, but the omega was listless and unresponsive to the sergeant's questions. The attending physician – a beta – stood on the other side of the bed and provided a sobering rundown of the internal and external damage done to Anastasia. He also pointed out that they couldn't tell yet what psychological damage might have been done.

Some of the contusions had been caused by Hopkins, whereas others came from the tussle between Moran and the police, which Anastasia had been in the middle of. Yet more marks had been inflicted later – apparently by Moran himself, who had wanted to erase any trace of other alphas from his omega's body. Penetration had occurred repeatedly despite the minor injuries, as was common during a heat. However, the possibility that Moran had been unusually rough couldn't be dismissed.

A colleague of the attending physician – an alpha – had offered the opinion that Moran had simply wanted to assert his claim of ownership over Anastasia, and that the desire to superimpose his own marks over those of the rapist was ascribable to his natural instincts. After all, the other doctor had said, there was no fighting the nature of a heat – and with those words, had drawn the ire of his beta colleague upon himself.

Sherlock felt sick as he listened to the report. Several times, he had to swallow down a rising sense of nausea and try to control the trembling in his hands, even though he would have liked nothing more than to leap at the next alpha he saw and slam his fist into their face.

_Claim of ownership..._

_Natural instincts..._

Those were nothing but flimsy excuses! There was nothing natural about it at all! How could a good third of the world's population assume that behaviour like that was in any way normal? How could Moran still find approval, and possibly get away with it scot-free? And those comments came from a doctor. From someone who was responsible for the well-being of his fellow humans; someone who was in a position to calculate the damage better than anyone else. What did that say about how the lawyers would react, who didn't have half as much interest in the victim's welfare?

After Donovan had taken down what little information she had been able to gather in a notebook, and put it away, she thanked the doctor and handed him one of her cards. She asked him to call as soon as Anastasia's condition improved.

"Let's go," she said to Sherlock, but he didn't move. He was still staring at the woman in the bed, struggling with his internal anger. When Donovan laid a hand on his shoulder, he tore himself away with a hiss.

"I hope Hopkins and Moran burn in hell together!"

"I hope so too," Donovan said sympathetically. "Let's go back, I want to speak with Moran next."

The rage that had come to the boiling point in Sherlock was still bubbling dangerously. Adrenaline shot through his veins, and a nervous tingling sensation ran through his extremities. He would have liked to rein in the excess energy with a bracing march, but that would have taken too much time – after all, he was also interested in hearing what Augustus Moran had to say in his defence.

His brow furrowed and his jaw set tight, he climbed into the passenger seat of Donovan's Ford and crossed his arms over his chest. She started the engine and had just pulled out of the parking spot when Sherlock's phone rang. It was John.

"Is everything okay? I was just with a patient when I… felt that something was off. Are you all right?" he asked, the concern in his voice unmistakeable.

"Yes. No. I'm all right, but… the omega's injuries are… extensive."

John swore under his breath; there were probably other people close by, and he wouldn't want to attract too much attention in the surgery. As if that mattered at all when the world was so awful and corrupt!

"We're on our way back to the Yard to interview Moran."

John inhaled sharply. "Be careful, yeah?"

"Of course," Sherlock grumbled.

"Promi—"

Sherlock ended the call before John was able to complete his request.

*

Augustus Moran arrived punctually for his interview at the Yard. He was accompanied by a solicitor – likewise an alpha. Both men were wearing elegant suits and smiles on their lips that spoke of certain victory.

In order to prevent any new conflicts, all other alphas had been forced to vacate the entire open-place office space until the Lord had been brought into the assigned interrogation chamber. Besides the five betas, Donovan included, Sherlock was the only other person present. He kept himself off to the side, although he knew that Moran and his lawyer would notice him immediately; if nothing else, his omega scent was especially prominent inside the Yard.

And so it happened: Moran's eyes promptly found Sherlock's as he was being led past all of the desks and waved into the interrogation room. He stopped where he was for a moment and gave Sherlock a once-over from head to foot before smirking and going into the room.

Sherlock sprang forward, enraged, and marched into the room next door, where he could observe the proceedings through a one-way mirror. He was joined by one of the betas, who would work the recording devices. Sherlock leaned against the wall behind the officer and watched Moran through the mirror.

The alpha was tall and slim, but it was clear that hard muscles lay beneath the chic blue suit. His features were sharp, his nose a bit too large for his face – but oddly enough, that only made him more attractive, rather than ruining the overall impression. He had short, black hair shot through with a few dark grey strands. The beginnings of tiny creases showed at the corners of his eyes and mouth, lending him a noble air. His scent was… confusing. A melange of several different smells that didn't match; that didn't create a symbiotic whole as was usual with bonds. It smelled _wrong_.

If one went by appearances alone, Lord Augustus Moran would have seemed like a fantastic catch for any omega. Or nearly any. Sherlock wasn't fooled by the clean-cut facade, having seen less than two hours ago what this alpha was capable of. Anastasia's swollen face emerged from his memory to take centre stage in his mind, and Sherlock had to dig his fingers into the cloth of his jacket in order not to march directly into the interrogation room and throttle the man with his bare hands.

Instead, he listened intently to the rather sparse, one-sided dialogue. After the general questions about his personal and family details, Moran's solicitor intervened and reminded him that he didn't have to answer any questions about Anastasia's health or Sebastian's involvement in the homicide investigation. Moran simply shrugged lackadaisically.

Regarding Anastasia, the lawyer insisted that Moran had acted in a completely justifiable manner, and that Hopkins and the Yard alone were responsible for events getting out of hand at Moran's house. Any additional aspects would need to be addressed in court, so that the responsible party – Hopkins – could receive his just punishment and Moran could be compensated in an appropriate manner.

Donovan tried to broach the topic of Anastasia's condition, but the lawyer brushed off any objections, referencing an alpha's right to ensure that no rivals touched their omega during the latter's heat. And most especially not on their property. He also found fault with the other officers who had lost control over themselves in the fracas, and labelled their behaviour as irresponsible. The fact that Anastasia had been injured was solely the result of the consequences stemming from those actions, and in no way the fault of her alpha.

Sherlock swallowed down the anger burning in his throat. He ground his teeth with frustration and glared at Moran through the mirrored glass.

As if the alpha felt Sherlock's gaze on his skin, he looked in Sherlock's direction and angled his head up a bit. His nostrils flared slightly, suggesting that he was trying to localise Sherlock's scent. The corners of his mouth twitched traitorously before he licked his lips. He never took his eyes off his own reflection, yet Sherlock had the impression that Moran was staring directly at him, and he shivered.

This man was a predator – Sherlock was convinced of that – even if his predatory behaviour seemed to be within socially accepted limits. Sherlock could only tell whether that was actually the case by taking a peek behind the scenes and speaking at length with all of his omegas.

When the topic of Sebastian was raised, Moran listened to the accusations and questions for a short while before tossing his hands into the air with annoyance and rolling his eyes in a theatrical manner.

"That's absolutely ridiculous! Just because you haven't made any progress with your investigation, you accuse _my_ omega of having killed someone in cold blood? And beyond that, you allow another one of my omegas to be raped by one of your people in my own home? How bloody impertinent are you anyway? Sebastian is far too much of a simpleton to have been able to so much as plan anything like that! Plus – how the _hell_ would an omega be able to carry out a crime of that scope? Without any help? I find it much more likely that you have a problem with our lifestyle, and are targeting us in a discriminatory manner. Even though bonding with more than one omega was a routine occurrence less than a hundred years ago."

"Then how do you explain Sebastian being seen in the house across from the crime scene, spying on the investigation through this pair of binoculars?" Donovan slid a photograph of the object across the table. "Why run away from the police? Wasn't he aware that in doing so, he made himself appear suspicious? Plus, he attacked and seriously injured an innocent bystander."

Moran shook his head in disbelief and crossed his arms over his chest. "He'll have been curious, I expect. It's not every day you see a crime scene! And when he was spotted, he got scared and ran away to avoid any trouble. I mean, we've seen what the police are capable of. And that woman running into him and hurting herself – you really can't blame that on Sebastian. He's not the brightest wick, if you get my meaning. The binoculars are mine, by the way. He generally uses them for birdwatching," Moran explained with a bored air.

"Is he often alone in the city?" Donovan inquired.

"If you're asking whether I have all of my omegas under continual observation – no, of course not. They can go into the city whenever they wish and pursue their interests. I'm no slavedriver!" Moran said with a cold laugh.

Donovan made another note and gave her colleague a questioning look. He merely shrugged slightly to indicate that he had nothing further to ask. Donovan sighed.

"All right, that's us finished then. We reserve the right to contact you again if anything else should come up. But you're free to go… for now. You can take your omega with you. If you'll excuse us for a moment – I'll prepare the paperwork for you. You can wait in the break room; there's a coffee machine there too." Donovan gathered her papers and stood up.

The officer in the recording room saved the data and looked over at Sherlock. "We're finished here. You can leave now."

Sherlock's gaze lingered on Moran for a moment longer, but as soon as he started for the door, Sherlock also left the room. Just outside, he ran into the alpha and his lawyer – quite by 'coincidence.'

"Oh, excuse me," he said, quickly looking at the floor.

"Not a problem," Moran replied with a charming undertone. "You can't imagine how often I run into people like this." He gave Sherlock a conspiratorial wink just as he looked up and met the man's eyes with fake chagrin. "I can't say I've ever grown tired of it," he added with a smile, giving Sherlock a penetrating look.

"Sebastian," the solicitor reminded him, jerking his head toward the exit. Moran followed obediently, but not without winking once more at Sherlock.

"What a shame he's bonded… He would have made a fabulous addition to my collection," Moran said – ostensibly to his lawyer, yet loud enough for Sherlock to understand every word.

Sherlock was engulfed by a hot and cold fury that he was only able to rein in with a concerted effort. He kept his distance from the two alphas, following them all the way to the waiting room where they would be meeting Sebastian. A short while later, the scents of the two men were joined by the aroma of bitter coffee.

Sherlock eavesdropped on their conversation, but was unable to extract any useful information from the scant statements. Moran spoke of his business trip and the fact that he'd made a good investment that would turn a profit in the next few months. The solicitor made a sound to indicate that he'd heard, and wrinkled his nose as if he didn't think much of the topic.

"Oh come on, don't be like that. I offered you an in – and the offer is still open!" Moran said.

"Let's not discuss it here of all places, all right? The walls have ears," the other alpha murmured in such a low voice that it was almost impossible to make out what he was saying.

"You're not going to let yourself be intimidated by a few betas, are you? Don't be ridiculous."

Sherlock heard Moran empty his coffee cup and set it down. Moments later came the sound of a soft, hollow clicking.

"Ah, there he is. Finally!"

A door was opened, and out came Sebastian – Sherlock was able to immediately identify him by his scent – and Donovan, who handed the omega and his paperwork over to the two alphas.

"Long time no see, _darling_!" Moran hissed, forcing a loud, smacking kiss onto Sebastian's cheek. The omega's scent immediately shifted. A combination of fear and anger flooded Sherlock's nose, making him shudder inadvertently. Sebastian was definitely _not_ happy to see his alpha.

"Let's go. There's someone I've been wanting to introduce you to for a long time now..."

Sherlock listened intently as the footsteps receded. He waited until he was certain that the alphas were far enough away before entering the break room and looking around. He didn't find anything out of the ordinary that might give some clue to the odd conversation, aside from the empty coffee cup which had been left on top of the rotating lid of the dustbin rather than being deposited inside. Indulging some instinct, Sherlock stepped closer and saw that a slender calling card had been stuffed inside the plastic cup.

Sherlock pulled on a pair of the Latex gloves he always carried with him before touching the card. The lower edge of the card was stained with some coffee spots, but otherwise it was in pristine condition. Lord Moran's name and address were on one side, along with his telephone number. When Sherlock flipped the card over, his eyes widened. The following words stood there in a broad, flowing script:

_Up for an adventure? Call me._

*

Sherlock slammed the door and ascended the seventeen steps to the first floor. He virtually tore his jacket off his shoulders and threw it toward the coat hooks, but missed. He watched it fall to the floor, which only served to intensify his anger. He slipped out of his shoes and kicked them away so hard that they hit the nearest wall and skidded across the floorboards.

"Sherlock?" John came to the flat door and pulled it open. He sought out Sherlock's eye with a combination of uncertainty and concern. "What happened?"

"They let him go! The two of them! Sebastian and Moran both, because it's supposedly his goddamned right to treat his omega like a piece of shit!" Sherlock stomped through the living room to the window, crossed his arms, and stared down at the street, only to whirl around a moment later and begin gesticulating wildly.

"According to Donovan, Moran won't get anything more than a warning and a fine that will be set by other alphas, who of course will think he's right and judge that his behaviour was appropriate. Appropriate! It's not fair."

John made a confused sound and frowned sourly. "You're right, it isn't fair. It's completely understandable that you're upset by the decision. But what about the case? Could they exclude Sebastian as a suspect?"

"Not really. But there's nothing to be done in the absence of any further evidence." Sherlock snorted incredulously. "Moran defended him by saying Sebastian was too stupid to commit a crime of that nature. Too stupid because he's just an omega who watches birds in his free time and somehow happened to turn up at the crime scene! And the injury to the beta was nothing more than an accident, in his view."

"Who enters a strange house to birdwatch from the stairwell?" John asked.

"That's what I'd like to know too, but apparently it suffices to say that omegas do such things. We're probably too stupid to find the park." Sherlock brushed past John to get to the kitchen, grumbling the whole way.

He glanced down at his microscope, all of the Petri dishes and pipettes, and his notebook bursting with notes. He would have dearly liked to sweep everything off the table in a single blow, to rid his life of the topic once and for all. But he knew that was nothing more than a pipe dream.

There was no escaping his gender and the prejudices associated with it.

"Did you speak to Moran?" John asked from where he stood in the opening between the living room and the kitchen. There was something ominous in his voice.

Sherlock extracted the calling card from his pocket and held it up. It was inside a small plastic evidence bag he'd got from Donovan. "Just briefly. He tried to flirt with me – even though he was there to provide evidence exonerating one of his omegas."

Sherlock got a strong sense of John tensing up as his scent shifted, flooded with a sour wave of jealousy. Yet rather than shouting out his feelings or demanding that amends be made, he pulled himself together. He approached Sherlock and took the plastic baggie from him, examining the card inside and the message on the back with a suspicious expression.

"'An adventure'... Is he serious? He's already got six omegas, and is chatting up another one?"

When Sherlock didn't respond, John gave him a quizzical look.

"You're different. Why aren't you like all the other alphas I've met before? It's a puzzle." Sherlock stepped closer to John so that he could look him better in the eyes.

John returned his gaze with the same amount of intensity, but refrained from touching him – as if he sensed that Sherlock was still too upset to allow any physical contact.

"You mean more to me than my physical urges, or some alpha ideal that's been cooked up by society, Sherlock."

Sherlock released the air from his lungs with a cut-off gasp, licked his dry lips, and leaned down.

"John..." he whispered softly and pushed his face firmly into the crook of his alpha's neck.

+++

tbc


	27. Chapter 27

Sherlock let out a cut-off gasp and pressed his nose into the crook of John's neck. John instinctively placed his arms around his omega's waist and pulled him in close. The anxiety making Sherlock's body so tense and stiff was slow to disperse, and it took several long minutes of scenting before Sherlock finally relaxed a bit.

John understood Sherlock's anger and distress – he was also stunned by the Sebastian Moran case – but he knew that he only felt a fraction of the pain that Sherlock was at the mercy of. The investigation brought Sherlock too close to confronting his own despised omega existence and society's views on that segment of the population.

John had never needed to think so intensively before about the predominant class society they lived in. Not when he'd bonded with Sherlock, nor when he'd lived in Afghanistan amongst his fellow alphas, visited that brothel, or gone through Sherlock's first heats with him. He'd never truly understood before why his omega felt such despair over his lot in life.

"I'm so sorry," John whispered helplessly against Sherlock's temple.

Sherlock made an inquisitive sound and kept rubbing his nose against John's neck. John felt as if Sherlock's accelerated pulse were throbbing through his own veins. He wished for nothing more than to take his omega's pain away.

"About everything. That nature made you an omega, and that you're so unhappy about it. That society keeps knocking you down, and that no one sees what wonderful people you are, all of you. Not because of your gender, but for yourselves."

John stopped speaking and thrust his hand into Sherlock's curls to pull his head closer so that he could press his own nose into Sherlock's fragrant neck.

"You're the most exciting, brilliant, breathtaking person I've ever known. I'm fully aware that I never would have had a chance with you if you hadn't been looking for an alpha. Sometimes I hate myself for being grateful that I am who I am, that I was at the right place at the right time; because you never would have looked at me twice otherwise."

John let his arms drop, having surprised himself at the outburst of suppressed emotions, and took a step back. His left shoulder twitched, and he rubbed it bashfully.

"Sorry. I probably shouldn't have said all that."

"I... it's fine," Sherlock said. Yet he turned away, looking as lost as John felt.

*

Sherlock had disappeared into his room after John's speech, and not emerged yet. The only sign of life was the water running in the shower sometime in the afternoon.

John ate a meagre dinner alone, then flicked disinterestedly through the TV channels until he grew tired. He completed his evening ablutions lost in his own thoughts. But before he got as far as wondering whether to go directly to bed or try to speak with Sherlock again, there was a tentative knock on the connecting door.

"Come in," John called around the toothbrush in his mouth.

The door opened cautiously, but rather than entering the bathroom, Sherlock leaned against the door jamb and regarded John unhappily. He looked exhausted, his hair tangled as if he'd been running his hands through it over and over until the curls were sticking out in every direction.

John spit the toothpaste out into the sink, rinsed his mouth and toothbrush, and dropped the latter into the cup next to Sherlock's. He silently dried his face and hands and gave his reflection a mirthless grin before finally facing Sherlock, who still stood motionless between the two rooms. The only signs of how nervous he was were the repeated plucking at the belt of his dressing gown and his unstable scent.

"Listen," John said in a low voice when Sherlock gave no sign of saying anything. "I'm sorry..."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows and gave his head a gentle shake. "You keep saying that. That you're sorry."

John chuckled humourlessly. "Well, I am. For all the stuff I heaped on you without asking. And that I prioritised my feelings over your discomfort with the case and your unhappiness with Moran. It was supposed to be your moment, and I made it mine instead. Please, forgive me."

John moved closer to Sherlock as he spoke those last words, placing one hand on his cheek. He stroked Sherlock's prominent cheekbone with his thumb and gave him a lopsided smile. Relief loosened his tense muscles when Sherlock leaned into the touch and returned his smile.

"Sleep in my bed tonight," Sherlock said, more order than request, and turned around to go back into his room without waiting for a response.

John quickly followed him into the darkened chamber, inhaling sharply in surprise when Sherlock let his dressing gown and pyjama trousers glide carelessly to the floor. He turned around to face John, naked, crossing his arms in front of his chest. Whether in a defensive gesture or to partially conceal his nudity was unclear. However, the uncertain expression on Sherlock's face, his nibbling at his lower lip, and his flickering gaze spoke for themselves.

"Is it all right if we..." Sherlock indicated his exposed body. "I showered, but I feel like Moran's scent is still clinging to me... It's disgusting."

"Of course," John hastened to assure him. "Should I also..."

Sherlock made an affirmative sound as he flipped back the bedspread and got into bed.

John quickly slipped out of his clothes as well and scooted up onto the mattress beside Sherlock. He held out his arms in invitation and smiled with relief when his omega wasted no time cuddling up to him. He gently scratched his fingers through the soft hair at the back of Sherlock's neck and sniffed at him discreetly.

"Don't worry, you just smell like you."

"I hate it so much," Sherlock murmured into John's chest, so close that John felt the movement of his lips on his skin.

"Hm?"

"That I feel so much safer around you. That I actively seek you out so that you can surround me with your scent and banish other alphas like Moran. It's a paradox. On the one hand, I condemn that bastard for what he did to Anastasia, but on the other hand..."

"What?" John prompted when Sherlock stopped speaking and gave no sign that he was going to continue. Instead, John sensed his frustration, disgust, and anger as clearly as if they were his own.

"What would you do if another alpha touched me? If he put his penis inside me? If he—"

"If he raped you?"

"Yes."

"I'd kill him."

John pulled back a bit from the embrace so that he could prop himself up and look Sherlock in the eye. His dismay at John's response was obvious from his widened eyes.

"I'd tear out the throat of anyone who laid a hand on you without consent," John insisted, sliding two fingers under Sherlock's chin to prevent him from breaking eye contact. "Which doesn't mean that I would punish you for it, or reinforce a so-called claim of possession in some twisted way. Just the opposite. Sherlock, if anyone hurt you – I'd chase them down to the ends of the earth, but I'd never make you pay for it!"

Sherlock's doubt in John's words was written so clearly in his expression that John felt duty-bound to express his good intentions more clearly.

"I'm well aware that I haven't fully earned your trust yet. Especially after Lestrade turned up at the end of our last heat and I practically attacked him." The reminder of his outburst of territorial behaviour and unbridled passion gave John the first stirrings of a guilty conscience. Had he gone too far that time?

"That was different," Sherlock murmured softly. "It's in our nature. That's not up for debate. Anyway... I liked your possessive streak at the time. It was quite... erm... yeah..."

Even in the darkened bedroom, John could tell that Sherlock's cheeks had turned fiery red. It was clear how difficult such an admission was for him, and how uncomfortable it made him.

"Yeah?" John said with a relieved snort, and dropped a kiss onto Sherlock's tense lips. "That eases my mind. Still, I want to learn to handle all of that and control myself better. But I know for certain that I would never do to you what Moran did to Anastasia. Never!" John spoke the last few words with vehemence, hoping that they would find a receptive audience with Sherlock.

"What makes you so sure?" Sherlock asked, with equal intensity in his voice.

"Because I..."

_...love you..._

The realisation hit John with such force that it knocked the wind out of him. His heart was hammering so hard that it felt as if it were trying to leap out of its bony cage. A lump formed in his throat, constricting it and preventing any words from escaping past his lips. He drew Sherlock back into his arms, pressed his omega's head down onto his pounding chest, and buried his nose in his soft curls.

He couldn't understand why the insight came as such a surprise to him. Of course he loved Sherlock. How could he not? He was the moonlight to his sun. The rain to his fire. The omega to his alpha. But to say it out loud now? It was too soon for that. Or too late. He didn't know; all he knew was how exhilarating and at the same time how frightening the extent of his feelings for Sherlock was.

"John?" Sherlock squeaked, wedged in between John's chest and strong arms holding him fast.

"Yeah... it's..."

John let out a pained laugh, not knowing what to say. Instead he reached down under Sherlock's armpits and pulled the omega on top of him so that his entire weight rested on John. Then he manoeuvred Sherlock's head into position so that it lay in the crook of his neck, and wrapped his arms around his slender body. He caressed the bond scar between Sherlock's neck and shoulder with his thumb.

"Just let me hold you. And believe me when I say that I'll never let anyone hurt you. Not anyone else, and especially not me."

*

They fell asleep in that position and didn't wake up until the alarm sounded on John's phone. Or at least John was jarred awake by the ringing. Sherlock slumbered blissfully on, his morning erection poking firmly into John's hip

John's cock was stiff too, and trapped between their abdomens. It would have been easy enough to grab Sherlock's soft arse cheeks with both hands and latch on to him; to rub against him, kiss him, inhale his seductive scent and begin the day with a climax. It wouldn't take much stimulation. They were both sweaty from being so close and from the heat that had built up overnight between their bodies and the blanket.

In the end, John conquered his surging arousal. It simply wouldn't have been right to indulge his lust that way. If he became intimate with Sherlock outside of a heat, then only when they were both awake and fully conscious of the moment. Not because their bodies were already aroused. And so, regretfully, he nudged Sherlock away as carefully as he could and slipped out of bed. He stretched and twisted the muscles which had become cramped from his unfavourable sleeping position, and fished for his trousers on the floor. He then quickly took his mobile phone out of the pocket to turn off the nerve-wracking alarm. It was a mystery how Sherlock could continue to doze despite the shrill noise, given that he was usually at odds with the mere idea of sleep.

_You are full contradictions..._

John gazed wistfully at Sherlock, who had his nose buried in John's pillow and his arms wrapped around it, a placid smile on his face. He then gathered up his clothes from the floor and went into the bathroom to get ready for work.

*

When John left the surgery early that evening, he decided to buy a few groceries and pop in at the cleaners'. Knowing his omega, Sherlock still hadn't got round to picking up his beloved Belstaff, despite grimacing every time he had to put on a jacket instead of the coat.

_Lazy sod_, John thought to himself fondly as he went up the stairs to 221B with the heavy garment and shopping bags hanging off his arms.

He found Sherlock in the living room, standing in the centre of the room with his arms folded in front of his chest and staring at the jam-packed wall. John still couldn't make out any connections in the display, despite the numerous red strings stretched between sticky notes, scraps of paper, and photographs.

"Hey," John greeted him, draping the garment bag with the coat over the back of his armchair.

He wasn't sure whether he should approach Sherlock or whether it was better to leave him alone with his thoughts. But Sherlock took the decision out of his hands by turning around, going over to John, and putting his arms around him.

"Hallo," he whispered into the crook of John's neck and inhaled deeply. "Nice that you're back."

"Yeah?" John asked, surprised, and sniffed in turn at the deliciously fragrant skin behind Sherlock's earlobe. He dropped a butterfly kiss onto the spot and smiled when he saw the goose pimples the touch triggered.

"Hmhm. I've missed you."

"Really?" A warm feeling spread through John's abdomen, and he petted Sherlock's curls with his free hand.

Sherlock pulled out of the embrace and regarded John with a bashful smile. "Yes, when I woke up this morning, you had already left. But everything smelt of you, and... I simply think more clearly when you're nearby."

John leaned forward automatically and gave Sherlock a tender kiss on the lips. "I've missed you too."

There was so much more he wanted to say. Such as that he also felt better when Sherlock was near. That he was constantly thinking of his omega. That it had always been like that. Ever since they'd bonded.

But instead of putting those thoughts into words, he tried to transmit his emotions through the kiss and hoped that Sherlock understood.

They stood there in the living room for some time, lost to the world, sharing lazy kisses and sniffing each other again and again, until the plastic handles of the shopping bags started to dig painfully into John's hands and he was forced to put a premature end to their tender exchange.

In the kitchen, he put the groceries into the refrigerator and cupboards, and assembled the ingredients for dinner. Sherlock joined him a short while later, the garment bag with his Belstaff over one arm.

"You picked up my coat."

"Of course," John smirked as he washed his hands. He then got out a cutting board and a knife. "It's not going to walk back on its own."

"Thank you," Sherlock said, his voice tinged with disbelief. After a brief hesitation, he came up behind John and slung one arm around his chest. "For last night too. For everything you said... and for taking care of me. You're a good alpha."

John cleared his throat to shift the lump that had formed there. In order to lighten up the serious tone which the mood was threatening to take, he gave Sherlock's hand a light squeeze and turned his head to press a kiss onto Sherlock's cheek.

"You can show me how grateful you are by helping with dinner."

He pushed the cutting board and knife to one side of the counter and laughed merrily when Sherlock whinged.

"Fine, but I'm not cutting any onions!"

*

To John's amazement, Sherlock turned out to be a talented cook. He cubed vegetables, minced garlic, and eventually even cut up the despised onions with the hands of a virtuoso, adding various spices and adjusting the pasta sauce until a concoction emerged that John had never tasted before.

"This is excellent," John sighed reverently, heaping another serving of noodles onto his plate.

"Don't get used to it," Sherlock said with a smirk as he pushed his empty plate aside.

"Shame, that," John laughed around the food in his mouth.

He meant it sincerely, especially since his way of thinking had changed regarding any expectations of omega behaviour. Of course he regretted the fact that he wouldn't be enjoying such delicious food on a regular basis, but maybe it was better this way. After all, he had no interest in ever getting as fat as Jean-Baptiste's alpha.

With his mind still on Hector Martin, John indicated Sherlock's microscope with his fork.

"Have you made any progress on figuring out the composition of Seven?"

Sherlock shook his head, running his finger through some of the leftover sauce on his plate before popping it into his mouth. John hastily swallowed his mouthful of pasta, lest the lascivious sight cause his food to go down the wrong way. Even though he knew Sherlock wasn't doing it with any ulterior motives. Probably...

"No," Sherlock added out loud. "I'm not getting anywhere at the moment. I've decided to look up the rest of the surviving omegas tomorrow. I need more information."

*

Next evening, John was on the verge of grabbing Sherlock, tossing him over his knee, and holding him down until he'd calmed down. He could physically feel Sherlock's stress level. His nervousness coursed through John's own bloodstream, putting him into fight or flight mode. Tense and on edge, he kept squeezing his left hand into a fist as he watched his omega pace back and forth like a caged tiger.

Ever since John had returned from the clinic, Sherlock had been retracing the same few square metres of the living room, giving an emotional account of his day.

He had put his plan into action and visited the remaining omegas. Or at least he'd tried to.

The last victim's omega, Ghanpati Bishop, had flat out refused to speak to Sherlock. She was still in hospital, and the attending physician had barred Sherlock from her room, at the omega's request.

Charlotte Adams, the omega of the second to last victim, had been released from hospital just a few days before. When she'd opened the door for Sherlock, she appeared emaciated and had dark circles under her eyes. She had given him a dismissive look and slammed the door in his face before he'd even had a chance to explain the reason for his visit.

The fourth victim's omega, Ernesto Wright, had apparently left the country immediately after getting out of the hospital, and flown back to his Caribbean home in Grenada. The neighbours had reported that the man had wasted no time packing up his meagre possessions and disappearing.

Finally, Sherlock had attempted to gain entry to the home of the Knights – the second victims. He'd travelled to the other side of London, hoping to find some viable clue or even a forgotten bottle of Seven. But fortune wasn't on his side that time either, as the abandoned house had been sold by the heirs as soon as the police had released it back to them in the wake of Violet and Alison Knight's deaths. The renovations by the new owners were already well underway.

All in all, Sherlock was no wiser than he had been the day before, which clearly infuriated him. John breathed a sigh of relief when Sherlock eventually curtailed his perambulations and dropped into his leather armchair with a sigh. Placing his fingertips beneath his chin, he began to silently cogitate.

"There must be some connection," he murmured after several minutes of silence, more to himself than John.

"Let's go through it again," John offered. Although he had no idea whether the constant repetition and summarising of the sparse information was helpful in finding a link or even solving the case.

Frustrated, Sherlock leaned his head back and closed his eyes. He began to list the facts once more.

"All of the victims were bonded alphas. They were drugged in their homes, then killed by an incision made to the jugular and femoral arteries. They all bled out within a short period of time. No additional violence occurred. None of the omegas were at home at the time of the murders. No one saw anything. There are no witnesses, and no signs of forced entry. The victims didn't know each other. They had no common friends, hobbies, or professions. There are no links between them whatsoever. So much for the parallels," Sherlock summarised.

"Right," John continued. "The alphas and omegas were both male and female. No common factor there either. Both of the deceased omegas died of the broken bond, so they weren't direct victims. They also had Seven in their bloodstream. What else, Sherlock?"

When Sherlock didn't respond, John pushed himself up out of his armchair and stepped over to the wall behind the couch. He studiously examined all of the bullet-point profiles of the alphas and omegas which were pinned up.

"They're all not from here, are they? The omegas. Isn't that a connection? Gwendoline McKenzie is from France, Alison Wright is Scottish, Jean-Baptiste Martin is Creole, Ernesto Wright comes from the Caribbean, and Ghanpati Bishop from India."

"Yes, I spotted that too. But Violet Wright is also from Scotland. She moved here four years ago with her omega on a job transfer. And Charlotte Adams was born in London. That's not it."

"Damn it," John grumbled, staring back intently at the wall.

"Which doesn't mean it's a bad idea," Sherlock said, suddenly close to John's ear.

John hadn't heard Sherlock get up, and startled with surprise when Sherlock slung his arms around John's body and pushed his nose into the crook of John's neck. John promptly felt as the tension gradually drained from Sherlock's body with each breath.

"What are you thinking?" John asked. He leaned further into the embrace, caressing Sherlock's lower arms where they were wrapped around his stomach.

"It _is_ conspicuous that most of the omegas aren't from here. What can we conclude from that?"

John suppressed a shiver when Sherlock's lips wandered feather-light across his neck and nape, and the omega grunted happily.

"I... I don't know?"

"They have no family here. No one watching out for them; no one who might suspect that the omegas were unhappy. Charlotte Adams may come from London, but she's an orphan and has no other relatives. Alison Wright is dead, so we can't ask her. But according to her papers, she comes from a low-income background and it makes sense that she wasn't in close contact with her family. Therefore – the omegas had only their alphas. And there's something else they all have in common."

"The Seven in their bloodstream?" John asked. He rotated within the embrace until he was facing Sherlock so that he could also breathe in the stress-relieving fragrance of his partner.

"Hmhm," Sherlock confirmed and tilted his head to one side to grant John better access to the delicate skin of his neck. He sighed happily when John pushed one hand into his curls and scratched the back of his head. "That, and the fact that they had all been treated multiple times for injuries, usually following a heat. Alison, Jean-Baptiste, Ernesto, and Charlotte all have hospital records for domestic violence."

"That's terrible!" Only the immediate proximity and scent of his omega were able to keep the anger fomenting in John's stomach under control. "I don't understand how anyone can treat someone they love that way."

Sherlock inhaled with surprise. "Love?"

"Yeah, I mean... you know..." Sherlock's penetrating gaze practically burned through John. He hastily buried his face further in Sherlock's bony shoulder. If he looked his omega in the eye right now, Sherlock would be able to see straight into his soul, and John wasn't ready for that. "I don't think any of those alphas loved their omegas. What they went through is horrible, but I just don't see the connection."

Fortunately, Sherlock let the topic of love drop just as quickly as John did, reacting with nothing more than an undefined grunt.

"I don't know. But I'm still of the opinion that Seven and Sebastian Moran in particular play a key role. If I could just speak with him or one of the other of the Lord's omegas. I'm certain that's where the missing piece to the puzzle will be found."

"Then you should talk to them."

"How?" Sherlock asked, frustrated. "I can hardly ring the bell and ask for an audience."

An idea began to form in John's mind. Although the thought made him uncomfortable, it might give Sherlock's investigation a massive boost. He set aside his own feelings on the matter and took a step back in order to look his omega in the eye.

"Maybe that's exactly what you should do."

Sherlock wrinkled his brow and looked at John as if he'd lost his mind.

"You've been invited, Sherlock. Maybe you should accept the offer and pay Lord Moran a visit."

*

It took several days before the plan was ready. Sherlock was utterly horrified at John's suggestion at first. But once the idea took shape, there was no stopping him.

On Friday, Sherlock gave John Moran's calling card. One phone call later and they'd set up an appointment for the next day with the astonished Lord. John hoped fervently that their house of lies was sturdy enough.

That evening, less than 24 hours before they were to set out for Notting Hill, they went over the details one last time.

"It needs to be believable, John," Sherlock whinged for the umpteenth time.

He was fiddling absently with the peel of the orange he'd eaten after dinner. Sherlock's tension overpowered the intense fragrance of the citrus by leaps and bounds, tugging at John's already overworked nerves.

"I know," John growled, irritated, and slammed the door of the cupboard where he was stacking the clean dishes harder than intended. "I can handle it. I won't wring Moran's neck, all right?"

"Yes, I simply mean that... Punch me in the face."

"What?"

"You heard me. I said you should punch me."

John shook his head and turned to face Sherlock, blinking at him in confusion. "There was a time when I always heard 'Punch me in the face' when you were speaking, but it was usually subtext."

"Oh, for God's sake!"

Sherlock sprang up from the kitchen chair with a single motion and rushed John. Before he could react, Sherlock reared back and landed a painful punch in John's face. John instinctively clenched his fist and hit back. Sherlock's head whipped back, and he dropped none too gently to the floor, groaning.

"Oh my God, I'm sorry! Are you okay? Sherlock! Please look at me."

John hurriedly knelt down beside Sherlock, who was rubbing his cheek and blinking with confusion at his surroundings, as if he didn't understand why he suddenly found himself on the floor. John gently grasped Sherlock's chin and tilted it up so he could assess the damage.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck." He carefully stroked the split skin on Sherlock's cheekbone. "I don't know how I... shit."

"John, calm down. You did precisely what I intended. It's all fine," Sherlock placated him and struggled to his feet from the tile floor.

"Bloody hell, nothing's fine. I'm your alpha! You're my omega. I've been trying to make it clear to you for weeks that I'm not like that, and then I turn around and hit you next chance I get?! Shit!"

John angrily kicked one of the kitchen chairs, then drew his legs in and hid his head between his knees. He heard Sherlock shuffling back and forth restlessly before he crouched down beside him. Cool fingers cautiously brushed the back of his hand, then tugged at his arm until John lifted his head.

He'd never seen such regret in Sherlock's eyes before.

"I'm sorry, John. I didn't know you'd take it this hard. I didn't think it through properly. Please forgive me."

John opened his arms and stretched his legs out. Sherlock understood the unspoken invitation, crawled into John's lap and put his arms around him. They sat there like that on the floor for a good long while, rocking each other in the embrace.

"I just can't stand you getting hurt. And especially when it happens by my hand – how can I be better than those alpha pigs?"

"You're not like them, John. You could never be like that."

*

Once in Notting Hill, John exited the taxi before Sherlock and limped to the Morans' property, leaning on his cane. Sherlock followed several paces behind him, keeping an eye on the street.

John pushed the brass doorbell with his head held high, ignoring both Sherlock and the camera above the entrance. A buzzer sounded, and the wrought-iron gate swung to one side.

_Into battle..._

They crossed the short driveway together to reach the free-standing building. An exceptionally good-looking omega female stood at the door to greet the visitors. With her pale blue eyes and blonde hair, she reminded John of Anastasia, and he immediately wondered whether it might be her sister. The woman gave both men a suspicious look, only to lower her eyes when they met John's.

"We have an appointment with Lord Moran."

The woman nodded and stepped aside. "He's waiting for you in his office. Follow me, please."

John looked around the imposing entry hall, his curiosity piqued, and inhaled deeply. The house's smell was off-putting. The combination of so many omega scents plus that of the house's master blended to form a disharmonious mish-mosh. John rubbed his nose irritably. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that Sherlock was also grimacing and appeared somewhat disorientated. He wondered how the residents could stand such a potpourri; the chaotic stench was doing weird things to his head after just a few seconds. Maybe one grew accustomed to it after a while.

John would have liked to look around a little longer, but the omega hurried ahead of them to open a mahogany-coloured door at the end of the hall. She gave John a courteous nod and Sherlock a sympathetic look – or so it appeared to John – before she closed the door behind them.

Lord Moran rose from his massive wooden desk in the midst of the classically furnished room and approached his visitors. He gave John a cool, professional smile as he held out his hand. He didn't dignify Sherlock with a direct look, but John couldn't help noticing the flash of interest in the man's eyes.

He made an extremely unfavourable impression on John. The main factor was certainly his knowledge of what a horrid person the Lord was. The fact that he'd made advances toward Sherlock didn't help the situation. But the ultimate reason for John's immediate revulsion was the offensive odour emanating from the alpha. That was apparently the price one paid for bonding with multiple omegas, John thought testily.

If one squinted, it was possible to interpret John's grimace as a thin-lipped smile as he squeezed Moran's proffered hand with more force than necessary. If the Lord was surprised at John's greeting, he didn't let on. Instead, he led the visitors to a cognac-coloured leather seating arrangement, took the armchair for himself, and left the couch for John and Sherlock. John groaned slightly as he laboriously settled himself, then stretched his right leg out and leaned the cane against the armrest.

"Sit," he snapped at Sherlock, who stood uncertainly beside him, looking as if he intended to take care of the cane. Instead, the omega promptly slid onto the couch next to John and lowered his eyes contritely.

Moran lifted one eyebrow and regarded the pair with undisguised interest.

"Mr Waters, what brings you to see me?"

"Doctor, please. And I believe you already know William here?" John's fake smile intensified. It became obvious now that it was bitter, a mere facade.

Lord Moran's posture shifted abruptly. It became more deferential, practically submissive. Clearly, the alpha was well aware that it was more than inappropriate to woo a bonded omega, and that John would have every right to knock some sense into his rival.

"Dr Waters," Moran hastened to correct himself. "I can assure you that my intentions..."

"I know full well what your intentions were when you left your calling card for my omega," John interrupted him in an icy tone. With his fingertips, he fished the soiled card out of the breast pocket of his shirt and tossed it carelessly onto the glass table between them.

"Doc—"

"I'm sure you can imagine how disappointed I was when I found it. Hidden in one of his little romance novels. As if I wouldn't notice when my omega tried to hide something from me."

John rolled his eyes with exasperation and gave Sherlock a grim look. Moran, on the other hand, stared pointedly at Sherlock's injured cheek, which had turned black-and-blue as a result of John's punch. Rainbow colours gleamed on his cheekbone, flowing up to just beneath his eye.

"Oh, I can well imagine how angry you were, Dr Waters. I would like to extend my sincerest apologies. I never intended to sow discontent in your relationship. I must have simply been in a state of confusion over the presence of an omega at Scotland Yard, and fallen victim to the misconception that you were conducting what might be termed a modern relationship."

John laughed dryly. "Absolutely not. Although I can understand your state of mind. An omega at Scotland Yard is a rare sight indeed. But my William simply enjoys playing detective. Fortunately, I'm good friends with an Inspector at the Yard who lets William 'help out' from time to time. Fetch coffee, make copies of files. That sort of thing. You cannot imagine how excited William was when he heard that an omega was a suspect in a homicide investigation. So I let him have his fun, even if he is a bit silly."

John patted Sherlock's thigh indulgently and gave Moran a conspiratorial grin. Moran in turn regarded John with a watchful eye.

"I understand. However, I hope you're not here to further your omega's pursuit of his hobby? Sebastian is quite exhausted from this whole excruciating episode, and we're not prepared to discuss the topic again."

The alpha started to get up, only to pause mid-motion when John shook his head.

"Of course not. I'm sure we both agree that these accusations are baseless nonsense. We're here for another reason entirely." John lifted Sherlock's hand and pressed a kiss to his knuckles. "I simply can't say no to my spoiled prince's wishes."

"Which would be?" the Lord asked sceptically. He folded his arms in front of his chest and crossed his legs.

"Look here, Lord Moran. I'm a doctor and an army veteran. I served Queen and county until I was shot." John gestured vaguely at his leg. "And my omega has certain... needs. Urgent needs that I – and it pains me greatly to admit this – can no longer sufficiently satisfy. But it pains me that much more to see my omega unhappy. He's so _greedy_ when he's in heat. But I can no longer completely satiate his hunger."

"Oh really?" Moran leaned back, obviously interested. He unfolded his arms and extended them casually on the armrests of the chair. The scent in the room shifted abruptly, becoming more intense and even more unpleasant for John. Outwardly unaffected, he continued his speech.

"You know, I'm not blind, Lord Moran."

"Please. Call me Augustus."

"Gladly, but only if you call me John." John smiled sweetly and squeezed Sherlock's hand harder. The omega still kept his gaze directed demurely downward. "As I said, I'm not blind. I see the way William looks at other alphas. The way he calculates whether someone else can give him the number of rounds per day he so desperately needs. Whether someone is a match for his appetite, his fervour, his unbridled lust."

"John," Sherlock whispered beside him, abashed. "You can't say things like that."

"Naturally, my pretty. That's just how it is."

John gave Sherlock a mild smile before returning his attention to his host.

"You see, Augustus. He doesn't even know how insatiable he is. I've never had a partner like William before. So wild, so sensual, so _tight_... and let's not even get started on how good he smells and tastes..."

John heard Lord Moran gulp down the excess saliva that had collected in his mouth and watched his Adam's apple visibly jump. He spared himself a scrutinising glance at the Lord's lap. The fact that he was squeezing his crossed legs together even harder was confirmation enough for John that his words had hit their target. He struggled to withstand the urge to leap at the slimy man's throat and fervently hoped that his scent wasn't giving him away.

Moran himself appeared outwardly calm, although his fingers scratched nervously at the leather armrest. Notwithstanding, the man was a politician and clearly didn't want to show his hand just yet. With an appropriate degree of disinterest, he let his gaze wander over Sherlock.

"I understand, John. However, I don't quite see at what point I enter the picture. As I'm sure you're aware, I'm a polybonder. I have several omegas, each one quite delectable in their own right. My Amelia tastes like strawberry ice cream with whipped cream on the first day of her heat. Her sister tastes of peaches. Richard of almond cake. I could open an entire pastry shop with my omegas."

Moran leaned his head back and laughed heartily at his own joke. It sounded like the bleating of an animal, and reminded John of a goat. Beside him, Sherlock tensed up noticeably, and John stroked his bony knuckles with his thumb to soothe him.

"And yet you gave William your card," John replied coolly.

The unpleasant laughter abruptly ceased, and Moran turned a hawk-like eye on John.

"That's true. So let's get down to the nitty gritty. What brings you here, John? Do you want to release William to my care?"

John shook his head emphatically. "Absolutely not. My omega is my most important possession, and I'm not about to give him up. But that's exactly the point. If things continue as they have been, I run the risk that this halfwit will simply run without thinking into the arms of another alpha who will take advantage of his needs and his naivete. As you were unfortunate enough to experience first-hand, that can happen faster than I'd like at Scotland Yard. And I simply won't allow William to spread his legs for some random gorilla who might even try to bond with him. No, Augustus."

John paused dramatically and gave the Lord a penetrating look.

"I want my omega to be satisfied, but I decide who gets to exercise that privilege, when, and where. I believe that you are capable of satisfying William's lust, yet possess enough control over yourself not to bite him."

"I see that you've given the whole thing a great deal of sober thought, John. But is this also something that you want, William?"

Lord Moran addressed Sherlock for the first time.

Sherlock slowly raised his head and regarded Moran shyly from beneath his long lashes. He moistened his dry lips and gave him a hesitant smile.

"Yes, sir..."

+++

tbc


	28. Chapter 28

Sherlock wrung his hands nervously in his lap and averted his gaze from the alpha sitting across from him. It wasn't difficult for him to play at being intimidated – not because Augustus Moran had that effect on him, but because it was so easy for him to slip into the role of the shamed omega. He and John had gone over the plan for hours until they virtually incorporated their new identities in their very flesh.

John was also convincing. Portraying a fragile, grumpy war veteran looking for some way to handle his overeager omega's barely manageable heats, he frequently reached for his cane as if needing to reassure himself it was there. The broad leather couch on which they sat was far too soft, offering little stability for someone who already had trouble with their sense of balance. John used that to his advantage, shifting restlessly back and forth as if he were on a waterbed.

Lord Moran observed his awkward movements out of the corner of his eye, but never offered John another seat or assistance of any kind. Perhaps he enjoyed seeing another alpha in such an unfortunate position while he himself sat enthroned in his armchair with everything under control. Or perhaps he simply didn't want to step on the other man's toes and endanger the proposed deal.

His gaze slid over to Sherlock once more, oozing slowly down his body like tar.

"When will it be?" he inquired apropos of nothing.

Sherlock startled and turned his head to John, who had scooted out so far on the edge of the seat that he was almost falling off the furniture. He blinked and looked up in confusion.

"What are you talking about?"

"His next heat... William's, if I recall the name correctly?"

Sherlock confirmed it with a nod, even as he avoided looking at Moran directly.

"It can't be much longer. He smells... ripe. Like a luscious fruit that's just about to fall from the tree and burst," Moran said, running his thumb across his bottom lip as if wiping the aforementioned fruit's juices from it.

Sherlock sensed more than heard John clenching his teeth and struggling to suppress a growl. Despite his agitation, however, he managed to keep his anger in check, preventing his scent from shifting too abruptly. Sherlock tried to focus on the familiar composition in order to assure himself that it was really his John sitting next to him and not the alpha he was trying to impersonate. But the chaotic scents of the villa's other residents made it nearly impossible to filter out the sunshine and moss.

"Let's see... it won't be too long until his next heat. About ten days if I'm not mistaken?" John replied, having regained control over himself. He addressed the question to Sherlock. There was something inscrutable in his eyes, oscillating between distress and resentment.

_Just a little longer,_ Sherlock thought and gave him a barely noticeable nod before looking down at his hands again. Speaking so openly about his cycle with someone who was practically a random stranger was enough to make his cheeks flush with embarrassment.

"Goodness, where are my manners? I haven't offered you anything to drink yet," Moran said with a conspiratorial smile. John didn't get the point at first, though, and declined.

"I'm thirsty," Sherlock said promptly, turning his attention on Moran.

John inhaled sharply and gave him omega a reproving look. "Please excuse him. He's sometimes a bit… forward."

"That's no problem at all. As you can see, my omegas are occasionally quite inattentive themselves. They should have brought something by now... William, would you mind terribly taking a peek to see where my dear Amalia has got to? She'll give you something to drink. You'll find the kitchen by going through that door over there and keeping to the left."

Sherlock nodded again, although he had to fight the urge to leap to his feet and rush out in order to begin his investigation – that would only have aroused suspicion. Instead he looked at John again as if to get his permission, and didn't stand until his alpha had signalled to him with a curt nod that he could leave.

The floor was covered in a thick, shag run that swallowed Sherlock's footsteps. Before he'd reached the door, he heard Moran begin to speak again.

"Now that we're alone, we can speak more freely with each other, John. I'd like to make you a proposition..."

As curious as Sherlock was to hear what that was about, he was more interested in penetrating further inside the house, finding Lord Moran's omegas, and questioning them. He trusted John to handle the situation and not give away their charade.

A wood-panelled hallway opened up in front of Sherlock, leading to two more doors just a few metres away. He stopped to consider for a moment whether he should take the right-hand door first in order to get a better sense of the layout of the estate. But as he didn't have much time, he decided to find the omega who had greeted them as quickly as possible and get as much information out of her as he could.

Sherlock therefore opened the left-hand door and found himself in a spacious dining room with a view of the garden. In the distance, he could see the fence John and he had spied through during their first visit, when they'd scouted the property and seen some of the omegas. Another corridor led to a state-of-the-art kitchen, but there was no one around. Sherlock tilted his head up and inhaled the air, trying to make out any conspicuous scents. The strawberry aroma actually did get stronger, although there was something else at the base of it, something bitter that stuck out and made his throat itch unpleasantly.

Sherlock approached a partially open door which seemed to lead to some kind of pantry. He paused when he heard a barely audible whisper from inside.

"… don't know. Maybe... could be the new one... … but... alpha... urry."

The hinges creaked as Sherlock cautiously pushed the door open and peeked into the room. Amalia was crouched in the tiny space, her knees folded up against her chest and holding a mobile phone to her ear. Her big blue eyes grew round when she saw Sherlock.

"He's here," she hissed and ended the call. Did she know who Sherlock was? Had Sebastian talked about him and expressed some suspicion? Or was she simply assuming that he would be the new omega in the household?

She pushed herself up from the tile floor somewhat awkwardly and shot to her feet. She brushed past him like an apparition and checked the kitchen. As soon as she'd assured herself that Sherlock was alone, she turned to face him. "What are you doing here?" she asked, her curiosity evident.

"You're Amalia, aren't you? Anastasia's sister?"

The omega's eyes widened even further at the question. Her mouth fell open slightly as if she were about to respond, but no sound emerged from her mouth.

"I've heard what happened to her."

"How?"

"Oh, it's in all the papers. I occasionally do some work in a large office – mostly playing gopher, making coffee, things like that. Lots of the employees have been talking about the incident. They don't realise how much I overhear, otherwise they wouldn't speak so openly about a scandal like that," Sherlock explained. When he saw the omega place one hand over her heart and crumple her shirt between her thin fingers, he continued. "I'm very sorry. It must be awful to go through something like that. But at least your alpha was able to protect her from anything worse."

Amalia gasped audibly and let out an incredulous snort. "Oh, no. No, no, that's when the nightmare began," she said softly. "We heard her screaming and crying but couldn't do anything. Augustus is... is... uncontrollable when he... He almost killed her." Her lips trembled and tears welled up in her eyes. She dashed them away angrily with the back of her hand.

"Why are you here?" she pressed him again.

Sherlock sighed heavily. "My alpha can't get through an entire heat with me due to his injuries. And that makes him unhappy – as you can see." He gestured vaguely at his injured cheek. "He's looking for another alpha who can take on that duty. Lord Moran expressed an interest, so..."

Amalia made a sound which might have meant either disbelief or disgust. "You should consider yourself lucky. I'd prefer to get through any heat on my own rather than... than living a life like this."

"Have you ever had to get through a heat alone before? It's not very fun!" Sherlock pointed out.

"It's also not very fun to be nothing more than a plaything, but that's exactly what we are. And that's what you'll be too once he gets his hands on you. Do you really think he'll give you back just because your old alpha wants him to? Oh no, Augustus will bond with you the first chance he gets, and then you'll belong to him. He's wonderful at first – gentle and affectionate..."

"That... doesn't sound so bad," Sherlock said, even though the words burned his throat like sour bile.

"Yes, but when he loses interest in you, then—"

"Amalia, who's this?" a young man asked as he entered the kitchen and discovered Sherlock. It was the same omega Sherlock had seen with Anastasia and another omega in the garden. Green, intelligent eyes regarded Sherlock with open curiosity and a pinch of suspicion.

"William," Sherlock said quickly; he hadn't introduced himself to Amalia yet either.

"He's here with his alpha."

"Er... Is... is Augustus going to..."

"—take me on?"

"—buy you?" Sherlock and the other omega said at the same time.

Sherlock snapped his mouth shut and looked back and forth between the two omegas. "Is that how he got the two of you?"

"That was the case for me and my sister, yes. But Richard..."

"I was actually supposed to go to another alpha, but then he wanted a female omega after all in order to sire an heir. Augustus... he suggested a trade." Richard turned away, his lips trembling. "We're nothing but things to them..."

Sherlock fought down the burgeoning anger and frustration inside him. He would have loved to do something to protect the omegas in Lord Moran's custody. But what? What was there for him to do? Moran didn't appear to be violating any laws. The whole situation simply showed how wrong and inhumane the alpha-made rules really were.

"What happens when he loses interest in one of you?" Sherlock asked neutrally, picking up the thread of the conversation which had been dropped when Richard came in.

The two omegas exchanged a look, as if they were communicating without words. They appeared to be considering how much they could reveal without getting in trouble. In the end, Amalia was the one who spoke.

"He... gives us away. Lends us out. That's happened to three of us so far, but... I think he'll do it with all of us sooner or later. As soon as another omega draws his interest." She gave Sherlock a pointed look.

Sherlock inhaled sharply and swallowed down the sourness that began to collect in his mouth. All he wanted to do at that moment was march back into the study and punch Moran in the face until he was nothing but a bloody heap.

"Oh," was all he managed to get out. "What happens with... How...?"

"It's not much different than what your alpha's suggesting, William. When we're about to go into heat and he's not interested, or is too worn out from another omega's heat, he offers us to his friends, colleagues, or business partners. Sometimes in exchange for money, sometimes for other favours. They're often bonded alphas who miss the thrill of the chase, or who have grown weary of their own omega."

"And there's nothing we can do about it," Richard added. "We're at the mercy of our biology."

"He gives control over to the other alphas and we... have to live with the consequences."

"That's not fair," Sherlock hissed from between clenched teeth. The helplessness he felt at that statement was nothing new. It had been his constant companion throughout his life, even if – as he now realised – it had never hit him as hard as Lord Moran's omegas.

Amalia simply shrugged. "It is what it is."

"At least there's one thing that makes the whole thing less unbearable," Richard said, withdrawing a slender phial from his trouser pocket. It was filled with a clear liquid.

"What's that?" Sherlock asked, although he believed he already knew the answer.

"It's called Seven and it makes a heat more manageable."

Sherlock frowned, nonplussed. "That's not what Seven does..."

"It does now. It's been refined further and doesn't make you high anymore. It has more of a numbing effect. You barely remember what happened for several hours after you take it."

"That's enough, Amalia!"

Sherlock whirled around, startled by the sound of the male voice. He had neither smelled nor heard Sebastian's approach. He simply couldn't distinguish amongst the many clashing scents. At the same time, Sherlock wasn't really that surprised by Sebastian's appearance. After all, this was his house. But after everything that Sherlock had discovered about life here, he was feeling vulnerable and unguarded. Not a good position from which to find out more about Sebastian's possible involvement in the homicides.

"William... what are you doing here?"

"Sebastian."

"You two know each other?" Amalia asked, visibly surprised. Sebastian ignored her.

Sherlock couldn't help but notice the way Sebastian's slender frame was trembling slightly. He looked even more unstable than the last time. His eyes were bloodshot, his hair greasy, there was a broad scratch across his chin, and all in all he gave the impression that he could barely remain upright.

"What has he done to you?" Sherlock asked breathlessly.

"Nothing. Get lost. We don't want you here!" Sebastian snapped, raising his fists in a threatening manner. His knuckles were also scraped and crusty with dried blood.

"Sebastian, what's wrong? Who is he?" Amalia asked.

"He works with Scotland Yard. He's responsible for... for me being remanded into custody."

The omega clapped both hands over her mouth and looked at Sherlock in disbelief. It was clear that she regretted having spoken so openly with him. Richard was also in shock, running both hands through his short hair, grabbing on and pulling as he turned away and murmured, "No, no, no," over and over.

They reacted more as if they'd been caught doing something they shouldn't, rather than being upset at the false imprisonment of a member of their family.

"Sebastian... I understand your situation better than you think. Let me help you!" Sherlock said, even though he had no idea what he could do to turn his offer into reality. Yet he was convinced that they would find a solution. Together.

"Don't be ridiculous! What are you going to do? You have no idea... Augustus wrote me off a long time ago, and it looks like he's finally found a suitable replacement," Sebastian said with a significant nod in Sherlock's direction. "Even if that wasn't your intention... He's scented blood and he'll do whatever it takes to get his hands on you. Your alpha is powerless against him."

Sherlock curled his hands into fists at his sides. He realised that Sebastian was just trying to rile him up – perhaps to drive him away and spare him the same fate. But perhaps to save his own hide. Sebastian shook his head wearily and looked down at his blood-encrusted fingers.

"No, it's over. Your police friends can't do anything about it either." With those words, he turned around and left the kitchen. Richard followed him, but not without first casting one last look in Sherlock's direction, filled with a combination of disgust and despair.

Before Amalia could leave as well, Sherlock grabbed her by the wrist and stopped her.

"Wait," he said, and held out one of his calling cards. "Please... call me if there's anything I can do."

She yanked her arm away, but took the card and put it into the breast pocket of her shirt before leaving the kitchen too.

Sherlock expelled the air from his lungs with a shaky sigh and rubbed his furrowed brow. It wouldn't be easy to dispel the tension making each and every fibre of his muscles vibrate. But he had to get back to the study where the two alphas were waiting. He'd been gone too long already.

Sherlock took a deep breath just outside the door to the study, then entered the room and immediately looked for John. He was still sitting in the same position on the couch: his shoulders a rigid line, the muscles in his thighs ready to jump up, and the tendons in his neck stretched taut.

"Ahh, there he is. Did you lose track of time gossiping?" Lord Moran inquired, apparently without so much as the slightest suspicion what his omegas might have revealed to Sherlock.

"She's nice," Sherlock replied economically and stopped beside the couch. "John? Can we leave now?"

John, who couldn't help but notice the anxiety in Sherlock's voice and posture, reached for his cane and heaved himself up. "Of course, I was just about to..." He cleared his throat and addressed Lord Moran once more. "Thanks for the chat. I'll be in touch in the next few days."

Moran stood as well and held out his hand to John, who grasped it and gave it a firm shake. "It's been a pleasure, John. You already have my card. Please don't hesitate to call me anytime so that we can discuss the details."

He then turned to Sherlock and took his right hand, lifted it to his lips, and placed a feather-light kiss on his knuckles before releasing it. He gave Sherlock a pleasant smile. "I hope we'll be seeing each other soon, William."

John nodded one more time, then laid one hand on the small of Sherlock's back and hastily directed him toward the exit. As soon as they were outside and out of hearing range, John let his mask drop. Without letting go of Sherlock, he tossed his cane into the air and caught it on the way back down, wrapped his fist around the shaft, and stalked back toward the front gate, no sign of a limp.

"He might still be watching us," Sherlock reminded him.

"I couldn't care less. If I ever come face to face with that bastard again, I'll throttle him with my bare hands!" John growled.

They looked around for a taxi in front of the estate, but the mere thought of sitting in the claustrophobic back seat, trapped with his own thoughts for the entirety of the ride back to Baker Street, made Sherlock deeply uncomfortable.

"Could we... walk a bit first?" he therefore asked.

"Of course," John answered right away and let Sherlock choose their route.

*

Close by Lord Moran's property, they found a park with a pond in the middle. Their hands stuffed into the pockets of their coats, Sherlock and John strolled around the banks.

"Were you able to speak with anyone?" John asked after they'd walked a short way in silence.

Sherlock nodded and gave a brief, succinct summary of his meeting with Amalia, Richard, and Sebastian. He mentioned that the latter had joined them at the end, and in what condition he'd been.

"I'm afraid he spent the last few days with another alpha," Sherlock said, and John grunted his agreement. "It looked as if he tried to defend himself, but I can't say for sure whether that was actually the case, or how successful he was."

"Why does he go back to Moran at all if he treats him like shite?" John asked angrily.

"I'm not sure, but I think it might have something to do with the other omegas in Moran's household. Sebastian was the first one; he may feel some kind of responsibility toward them."

John hummed and looked out across the smooth surface of the pond. He clenched his left hand into a fist repeatedly, while with the right he held his cane in a death grip.

"And you? Did you find out anything else?" Sherlock asked after another stretch of silence.

John nodded and sniffed defiantly. "Moran offered me… Dr Waters, a lot of money for you. With one of his own omegas thrown in as a bonus. Apparently there's someone in his… household who he'd like to get rid of and who's… lower maintenance than you. Someone who'd provide a great deal of pleasure without creating any work."

"Sebastian?" Sherlock guessed. He hadn't failed to notice John's cautious formulation.

"No, he meant a woman, although he didn't give her name. But it can't have been the omega who opened the door for us."

"Amalia," Sherlock provided.

"Yeah, not her. Maybe he meant Anastasia, now that she's… I don't know… less attractive to Moran." John kicked a pebble that lay on the path. The small stone clacked on the pavement a couple of times, bounced off a branch, and landed in the water with a _plop_. "He trades his omegas, Sherlock. That means there are other alphas like him. Alphas who place no value on the lives of their omegas and treat them like…"

"Possessions."

"Yeah," John sighed. "This whole thing reminds me of that blasted brothel in Afghanistan. The way things look now, the owner must have been a polybonder too. The… the omegas all wore some kind of collar around their neck to prevent them being bitten by one of the 'guests'," he said, tracing the protective accessory in the air around his own neck with his left hand.

Were Moran's omegas also provided with a similar protection when they were loaned out to other alphas? What if they got bitten anyway? Did Moran demand compensation in monetary form or other favours, or did he simply leave the omegas in the clutches of their new alphas?

"What happens if an omega is bitten by two different alphas?" Sherlock wondered. "Does the second bond override the first one?" He couldn't imagine what that might be like, and didn't want to. Of course he could only draw conclusions from his own experience, and his bond – a _soul_ bond – was something quite singular. The thought that another alpha might try to bond with him… What would that mean for his body; for his soul? Would he even survive the breaking of a soul bond?

"No idea, I've never thought about it before. I've always believed a bond was permanent and a line that was respected by other alphas. Finding out that's not the case is… Sherlock?" John whirled around when he realised Sherlock had stopped walking.

Sherlock's entire body was trembling. All the information, all the suffering and injustice was simply too much for him. A sense of helplessness overwhelmed every cell in his body, twisting his guts into knots. He felt certain that his legs would no longer support him if he took so much as one more step.

John dropped his cane, closed the short distance between them, and grasped Sherlock's biceps to support him. "Are you feeling all right?"

"John…" Sherlock said in a low voice without looking at his alpha. "Wouldn't you… wouldn't you like to… trade me too? For another omega? One who's not so… ungrateful, selfish, and… and arrogant?"

"Sherlock… what are you talking about?" John said, his voice laced with concern and disbelief. "I would never… Oh God, I love you, you idiot! You do know that, don't you? I'd never give you away or allow anyone to take you away from me!" John declared and pulled Sherlock into his arms.

Sherlock clung to John and buried his face in the crook of his neck. His heart was beating so hard all of a sudden that he thought he was having a panic attack. He felt his throat constrict and tears pricking at his eyelids, but something stopped them from spilling out and providing an outlet for the stress that had built up inside him. Short, gasping breaths burned in his lungs. The cool air seeped in underneath his clothes where John wasn't touching him, intensifying the confusing sense of being adrift.

John was the only thing that provided warmth and… security.

It took many deep breaths before Sherlock was able to get his chaotic emotions under control again. When he finally felt stable enough, he lifted his head and rested his forehead against John's.

They were too close to make eye contact. All the little details ran into each other, making John's face blur if Sherlock tried to take them all in at once. The stubble that had grown since his morning shave; all the wrinkles both shallow and deep that gave his expression so much character; the first few white hairs in his eyebrows and the dark wreaths of his eyelashes. The copper-flecked blue of his irises. His thin, pink lips.

"You love me?"

John slipped his hand in between them and caressed Sherlock's cheek with his thumb, curling his fingers around the back of Sherlock's neck.

"Yes," he replied simply.

Sherlock tilted his head a little, rubbed his nose against John's, and touched his mouth tenderly with his lips. They exchanged a gentle, unhurried kiss, as if the world around them were standing still and this moment were the only thing left that mattered.

"I love you too," Sherlock whispered, barely a hair's breadth away from John. It was the first time in his life that he'd said those words, and their weight hung heavy between them.

*

They spent the ride to Baker Street in silence. Their hands lay on the seat between them, clasped firmly together. They occasionally exchanged a glance or a wistful smile, but neither of them managed to shake off the strange afternoon entirely.

Back at the flat, Sherlock rang Sergeant Donovan and gave her a report. She was far from pleased that Sherlock and John had exposed themselves to such potential danger, and reminded them unnecessarily that they had nothing to hold against Lord Moran. Since he'd paid his fine for assault, he'd been sufficiently chastised in the eyes of the law. An additional small sum had been agreed upon in damages for the beta woman Sebastian had injured, and a warning issued to the omega. No further investigation was planned.

Listening to Sally, it was clear she wasn't happy about the way things had gone, but she had to comply with the applicable laws.

Hard evidence would be necessary to pursue a charge that Lord Moran was engaged in some form of human trafficking. But under the current circumstances, it would be difficult to get a statement from his omegas, and even then that wouldn't be enough to charge the alphas involved. And of course no one expected that any of the alphas would voluntarily surrender if they were found guilty.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock," Sally said on the other end of the line. "All we can hope for is to solve the McKenzie case before there are any more victims."

Sherlock huffed with frustration. "Maybe he caught wind of Lord Moran's machinations after all the write-ups in the press and is already planning to exact revenge on him."

"You shouldn't say things like that."

"I know. Still... We haven't got any usable leads in the McKenzie case, meaning there's nothing left for us to do anyway but wait for the killer to strike again."

"Maybe he's given it up, or achieved his purpose."

"That's not generally the way serial killers work, Sally," Sherlock said and glanced over at John, who was sitting in his armchair with that day's paper held open in front of him. However, instead of reading, he was eavesdropping on the conversation – Sherlock could tell by his lack of eye movement. He got Sally to promise to report back if there was any news, and rang off.

"Anything interesting in the paper?" Sherlock inquired. He ambled slowly over to where John was sitting, took his phone out of his pocket, and stopped directly in front of John's crossed legs.

John looked up, realising he'd been caught. He cleared his throat and folded the newspaper before setting it down on the side table. "Not really," he said, putting his crossed leg back on the floor.

Sherlock took that as an invitation. Steadying himself with one hand on the armrest of the chair, he slid sideways onto John's lap. He placed the other hand on John's shoulder, dropped a fleeting kiss onto his temple, and cuddled up against the side of his head.

John automatically drew Sherlock closer in order to prevent him from slipping off his lap, and in turn cozied up against every square centimetre he could reach. He opened his mouth to say something, only to change his mind and let out a sigh instead.

"What?" Sherlock said.

"Nothing… I just wanted to ask if everything's okay. But of course it isn't."

Sherlock wordlessly affirmed the negative answer.

"We don't have to talk about it. At least not today."

"I wouldn't know what to say about it anyway. The case is on the back burner for the time being. Moran will continue as he has been, and Sebastian, Anastasia, Amalia, Richard, and the other two will eventually succumb. And who knows how many other om—"

"Stop! Please," John interrupted, hiding his face in the crook of Sherlock's neck. "I can't take any more today."

Sherlock pulled away from John a little so he could look at him. His furrowed brow and the quivering lids of his closed eyes posed an image of distress. It was good to know that John was disgusted by such actions and wanted to help make the world a better place, but Sherlock found it difficult to see him suffer like this.

His lips brushed John's face, his eyebrows, forehead, and ears. "You're not like them. You're something very special… unique."

"But that's precisely the point! I don't want to be anything special in this. I want it to be normal to see omegas as… human beings, with equal rights… of equal _value_, and not as possessions that alphas trade back and forth! I can't stand the thought of someone… that that Lord expressed an interest in you, purely because he sees you as an object that can satisfy some fleeting desire."

John wrapped both arms around Sherlock and squeezed him so hard that Sherlock fancied he heard his bones grinding. "God… I want to undo everything that's happened. I want people to wake up and see what they've done. I want you to be able to walk down any street in this city without worrying that some random alpha's going to try to make you his…"

Sherlock clung to John as best he could so as not to topple over, but also in order to give his alpha something to ground him. At the same time, he listened to the fervent monologue with bated breath.

"You're helping," he said, pushing John back in the seat so they could look each other in the eye. "You're helping so much to correct the way I see the world, to show me that things can be different. You're so important… and I love you. We belong together, you and I; not because we're bonded…" Sherlock scrabbled at the collar of his shirt until the top two buttons popped open and he was able to move the fabric aside and expose his bite mark. "Not because of this." With his other hand, he tapped his breastbone directly over his heart. "But because of this."

John regarded him with his mouth hanging open and his eyes gleaming wetly. "Sherlock…" he gasped breathlessly, then pulled Sherlock close again and kissed him deeply.

Sherlock returned the kiss with the same fervour, near desperation, dipping his tongue into John's mouth and licking its counterpart possessively. "You belong to me," he whispered before their lips met again. "As do I to you!"

"Yes," John panted, his hand moving continuously over Sherlock's back and hips. Their position was too impractical to allow for more than that, however, so Sherlock twisted reluctantly off John's lap and pulled him to his feet as he stood.

"We haven't even had sex once since we spoke of our soul bond… I think we should change that," Sherlock said, kissing his way down John's neck. John tilted his head to one side and bit down on his lower lip before responding.

"We've both been too… tense… Are you sure that you—"

"Yes, definitely," Sherlock cut him off and kissed him again before grabbing his hand and tugging him toward his room. John stopped short in the kitchen, however.

"Wait, do you have… lubricant? I mean, we don't need to go that far, it's just—"

Sherlock turned around and stood so close to John that they were more or less touching from head to toe. He placed his right hand shamelessly over the bulge at John's groin and was pleased to feel the half-hard erection beneath the thick denim cloth.

"John? It feels like an eternity has passed since my last heat, and I need to have you inside me tonight. So – your room? Or is the tube in your nightstand already empty?"

"_God_... you!"

*

Sherlock couldn't say that he was really as confident as he appeared. Quite the opposite, in fact. This was the first time he was going to have sex outside of a heat, and he didn't know how his body would react. During a heat, everything ran on autopilot and nature took over, but now? He had absolutely no idea whether or how John's alpha cock would fit inside him without him immediately regretting it.

He still had a vivid memory of the night he'd gone into a false heat from his experiment and practically attacked John; it wasn't an experience he was eager to repeat. But he doubted that night was a good benchmark by which to measure what was about to happen tonight. A lot had changed between them since then and the situation was totally different.

When they entered the room on the second floor, John checked once more whether Sherlock really wanted to sleep with him.

Sherlock rolled his eyes with mock indignation and undid the rest of the buttons on his shirt. He let the garment drift to the floor and began taking off his trousers – all without taking his eyes off John for a second.

John still hadn't moved by the time he was finished. Sherlock stepped closer to him and unceremoniously grabbed the waistband of his trousers, reeled him in, and opened the button and zipper with nimble fingers. At the same time, he pressed a kiss onto John's lips and tried to make eye contact from beneath hooded eyelids.

"Do I need to do everything myself or are you going to give me a hand?" he asked with a sly grin and slipped his hand inside John's flies. John squeaked in shock when Sherlock grasped his erection through the fabric of his underwear and gently kneaded it.

It didn't take long before they lay naked beside each other in John's old bed, the tube of lubricant within arm's reach as they kissed. The initial nervousness that Sherlock had tried to cover up with his affected audacity now rose closer to the surface. They took their time caressing, kissing, and exploring each other through touch without being at the mercy of the searing dictate of a heat. It was a new form of pleasure, of intimacy, that Sherlock hadn't expected.

And yet he sensed his nerves reacting with increasing sensitivity to the gentle touches; his body undulating more strongly in response to the promising friction produced by the fingers inside him. It wouldn't take much longer until the wave of lust building inside him reached its crest, causing him to collapse back against the pillows, deflated. But not yet.

Sherlock pulled away from the fingers and rolled onto his side, facing John, so that he could run both of his hands along the length of John's now fully erect member. He gently pulled the satiny foreskin back, exposed the head, and distributed the moisture around the glans which had collected underneath the foreskin.

Aside from the one time he'd taken John into his mouth, he'd never spent much time during a heat to focus on John. It was different now, and he was enjoying it immensely to coax small, helpless sounds out of John and catch them with a kiss.

"Sherlock," John whispered reverently and deepened the kiss as he reached behind him with one hand, groping for something. When he'd found it, he propped himself up over Sherlock on his other arm and showed him the tube of gel. "May I?"

Sherlock nodded mutely, uncertain what was expected of him. He was surprised to see that John didn't open the lube right away, but instead kissed his way slowly down Sherlock's chest and stomach until his chin bumped against the tip of Sherlock's cock. He deposited one single kiss onto the reddened crown and lapped up some of the pre-come just as their eyes met.

"Lean back and relax," he said and enveloped Sherlock's erection with his lips.

Sherlock gasped out loud, startled by the sudden heat and wetness. His hips lifted off the sheets of their own accord, causing his cock to slip further inside John's mouth. John made a low, satisfied sound and let Sherlock slide almost all the way out of his mouth only to suck him down to the root a moment later.

"Oh, John!"

Holding himself up on his elbows, John continued moving his head up and down – sometimes slower, sometimes faster – letting Sherlock's erection thrust into his throat, sometimes partway or even all the way. Only when Sherlock was breathing hard and had forgotten everything else around him did John let up and lift his head to regard him with his pupils blown wide.

Sherlock's cheeks were glowing red hot, his throat was parched, and his nipples had contracted to hard nubs that sent icy-hot shivers straight to his groin at the slightest touch. His cock gleamed wetly in the last few rays of blue twilight falling through the window, and the sheer hunger in John's eyes made his stomach do somersaults.

"I want you," he whispered before John happened upon the idea of making him climax without having been inside him.

John sat up far enough for him to kneel between Sherlock's spread legs and picked up the tube. It squelched when he opened it and squirted some of the viscous fluid onto his extended fingers. He spread it generously around Sherlock's arsehole without even coming close to penetration.

"Squeeze this muscle here as hard as you can."

"What? Why?" Sherlock asked, bewildered.

"Trust me, okay? Please."

Sherlock did as directed, although he felt fairly ridiculous. He tried to read from John's expression what his intentions were, but eventually decided to put his full focus and attention on the experiment. John's gaze rested patiently on his face as he repeatedly circled the puckered skin with two fingers, all the while lavishing Sherlock with one compliment after another.

"You're so incredibly sexy, you know that? If you could see yourself… And your scent… like summer rain and honey, moonlight and nightshade… I love that smell so much…"

With his free hand, John stroked the inside of Sherlock's thigh, triggering goosebumps that spread to the rest of his body in no time flat. Sherlock drew air into his lungs and tried to remain still instead of thrusting his pelvis lasciviously at John until he finally, _finally_ got on with it.

"You're doing so well… Tell me if it's too difficult, yeah?"

Sherlock nodded and suppressed the small whimper that had found its way into his mouth. He watched out of the corner of his eye as John stroked his erection with his free hand, the way the glans disappeared over and over in his fist and how he gave a slight twist to his wrist to get the right stimulation.

Sherlock couldn't have said how much time passed in this manner, but pretty soon his muscles began to quiver and he knew he couldn't keep up the constriction much longer.

"Can't… anymore."

"Right, okay… just a little longer, yeah? You're doing so well. Look at me, look at me," John said and leaned over Sherlock. He picked up the lube again and spread some on his erection. Then he put his hand down on the mattress beside Sherlock's shoulder to hold himself up as he guided his cock to Sherlock's quivering hole. It was hot, fairly glowing. A thin film of sweat had formed on their skin, but there was no cooling off now.

"And now… let go."

Sherlock couldn't have squeezed his muscles any longer even if he'd wanted to. Every fibre in his being breathed a sigh of relief as he relaxed. But that was all forgotten in a moment, because just then John pushed into him. It was easier than expected. His exhausted muscles were unable to contract, allowing the first part of John's copious circumference to pass through virtually without effort.

Even so, the limits of the sphincter's ability to stretch were soon reached, and Sherlock's synapses fired impulse after impulse down his neural pathways. He dug all ten fingers into John's arms, his breath coming in shallow gasps.

"John!"

His alpha paused for a moment and whispered calming words into Sherlock's chest. "It's all right, it's fine… we don't have to—"

"No, don't stop! Wait… wait a second, okay?" Sherlock said, trying to focus on his breathing. He couldn't understand what happened during his heat that allowed him to take John inside him fully. It was the same body, and yet now he felt as if he were being split in two as countless nerve endings couldn't decide between pleasure and pain.

"Sherlock… please, let's—"

"It's just that I'm… not used to it. You're so big. Move a little, all right? Slowly, slowly," Sherlock said, propping his hands against John's chest to guide and direct the shallow thrusts and stop them if necessary.

"Like that, just like that." The increased stimulation caused an exponential increase in arousal. The unyielding pressure on his prostate, the sheer fullness, and the immediate presence of his alpha also worked their magic on him. John's slightest movement either in or out of him sent a burst of lightning bolts through his body, making him twitch and moan with pleasure.

He soon felt the glide become smoother, and John was able to move more easily. Perspiration beaded on his forehead and trickled down his temples as he finally managed to seat himself fully inside Sherlock. He let out a sound that was more growl than moan, and leaned down to unite their mouths in a heated kiss.

Sherlock felt his rock-hard erection once more wedged between their bodies; it probably wouldn't take more than a stiff breeze to make him orgasm. _Oh God_… but he didn't want it to end. Not after they'd fought so hard for this; and now that nothing existed in the world but this all-encompassing lust, he wasn't ready for the grand finale.

"John! John!" he cried out again and again – not sure whether it was a request or a plea. The slap of skin against skin interspersed with arrhythmic huffs and mindless moans reverberated off the walls, the sounds occasionally swallowed up in a breathless kiss.

"Do you want to come?" John asked between heavy breaths.

"Yes, no… yes!" Sherlock couldn't think straight, couldn't tell up from down. But when John grasped his hand and placed it around his cock and he felt the touch like an electric shock, Sherlock knew he couldn't draw out their lovemaking any longer. A shiver ran through his body, making his arms and legs twitch uncontrollably. He barely managed to move his hand up and down twice before pleasure slammed into him like an unstoppable force.

He tossed his head back and moaned with abandon as his muscles contracted, seizing the erection inside him with an iron grip.

He fancied he heard John swearing; felt him thrust deep inside him one final time and spurted, his whole body shaking. John's forehead rested on his chest as he tried to transport enough air into his lungs and not burden Sherlock with his entire body weight at the same time.

Sherlock placed his hands around John's head and pulled him up far enough to kiss him, then hugged him as hard as possible and rubbed his face into his sweaty blond hair.

"Okay?" John asked, barely able to get even the single word out.

Sherlock hummed an affirmation and kissed John's hair, cuddled even closer to him, and luxuriated in the buzzing, tingling sensation throughout his body that seemed like it would never end. John was still inside him, but without his knot he was already slipping out bit by bit, allowing the warm semen to seep out around the sides and dribble down his arse cheeks.

Sherlock didn't care. This moment was so much more important than keeping the sheets clean. He ran his hands over John's hair, neck, and shoulders until their breathing had normalised. It was already pitch black out, and had been for a while.

"John?"

"Hm?"

"When… my next heat begins…"

Curious as to what Sherlock was going to say, John pushed himself up far enough to see Sherlock's face, even if he couldn't make out much more than the outline. He pushed a damp curl off his forehead and dropped a kiss on Sherlock's cheek, unable to contain himself.

"Yeah?"

"Perhaps it's stupid, but… I… I'd like to renew our bond. I'd like to do it right this time."

John's eyes widened in surprise. "Renew our bond? That's…" He kissed Sherlock again, this time on the mouth. "Really?"

"Yes, unless you don't want to?"

"Of course I do. Absolutely!"

*

They lay awake together for a while that night, although they didn't speak much.

They fell asleep in each other's arms, only to be awoken a few short hours later by Sherlock's phone. He felt around on the nightstand, still half asleep, until he remembered that he was in John's old room and his phone was in the pocket of his trousers on the floor. He grumpily peeled himself out of the bed and grimaced when a dull pain shot through his body. It appeared that he would be suffering the consequences of their lovemaking for a couple of days at least.

He stood with a soft sigh and walked around the bed. He picked up the trousers and fumbled for the pocket in the dark, finally extracting the phone so he could peer at the screen. It was 3:47 AM and the incoming call was from an unknown number.

"Holmes," he said, his voice rough with sleep.

On the other end of the line, he heard a woman's distraught sobs.

"Who… Amalia?" Sherlock said.

"He… he's dead! Oh God, he's dead… Please, please help us," she whimpered before the call cut off.

+++

tbc


	29. Chapter 29

Amalia sat shaking on the steps in front of the house when John and Sherlock leapt out of the taxi. She was rocking back and forth, rubbing her bare arms. She seemed detached, her only interaction with the men on their arrival being to point one finger at the open front door.

John briefly debated whether to stop and take care of the distraught omega, but decided instead to go after Sherlock, who had entered the building without so much as the slightest hesitation.

The scene which presented itself in the brightly-lit Moran manor was a horrific one. John had had the presence of mind back home to grab his First Aid kit and bring it along, but the way things looked, there wouldn't be anything he could do with a couple of plasters.

Bloody footprints carved a path down the stairs from the first floor, then led diagonally across the entrance hall where they began to fade and ended completely in front of the half-open door to Lord Moran's study.

"We need to notify the police," John whispered.

"Not yet," Sherlock hissed just as quietly.

He laid his index finger across his lips, signalling John to remain silent. His entire body visibly taut, he squeezed his eyes shut and listened hard. John perked his ears as well, but the house didn't respond with anything more than a ghostly silence.

Sherlock jerked his head to tell John to go upstairs while Sherlock checked out the study.

John nodded his understanding, tightened his grip on his bag, and dashed up the stairs – even if everything in him was screaming not to leave his omega alone.

The bloody trail led down the stairs, but it originated on the upper floor. The brownish-red marks stood out starkly against the beige carpeting which covered both the stairs and the floor of the hall.

On the first floor, several closed doors led to various rooms. Only one door was open: at the end of the hall, right where the crimson trail began. The metallic scent of blood was almost overwhelming. John could virtually taste it in his mouth. He wrinkled his nose in disgust and pressed his tongue against the roof of his mouth, then swallowed several times, trying unsuccessfully to get rid of the smell. The fine hairs on his arms stood on end, and cold sweat formed at the back of his neck as adrenaline pumped through his veins – every inch of him on red alert.

He wished for the familiar weight of his service revolver in his hand as he cautiously slipped inside the room.

John stopped in the doorway, rooted to the spot, as he slowly absorbed the grisly scene. Covering his mouth with one hand, he realised that a gun would be of as little use here as the bandages he'd brought. The bedroom he found himself in – presumably that of the master of the house – was spattered with red as if an overly enthusiastic artist had tossed buckets of paint around.

The Lord himself lay lifeless and nude on his bed. His wrists had been bound to the bedframe with cable ties. His head lolled down onto his chest and his legs were spread and bound as well, as if someone had wanted to make sure there was no way Moran could move. John only noticed on the second glance that the sheets beneath Moran's body weren't naturally red, but soaked with the alpha's blood.

John hurriedly approached the bed and held his index and middle fingers against Moran's neck. As expected, he felt no pulse. Instead, the head rolled to one side, revealing a massive gash where his neck gaped open. Another slash appeared to have opened his femoral artery.

However, John couldn't see enough for these to be more than suppositions. There was too much blood covering the Lord's body for individual injuries to be clear. John simply based his conjectures on the similarity to the scenes of the other murders.

There was one detail, however, which stood out and posed a stark contrast to the previous crime scenes. On the wall behind the double bed the words NEVER AGAIN had been written in dark red letters.

The killer must have stood on the bed and dipped their finger several times into the alpha's blood in order to leave the message. That was why their feet had been covered in blood when they'd fled from the bedroom and gone into the study...

The killer must still be in the house!

"Fuck, Sherlock!"

John ran out of the room in a panic. He raced down the hall and the stairs, almost stumbling when he took the last three steps in one bound. His left knee protested with a crunch when he increased his pace, teetering to catch his balance. As he ran through the entryway, he scanned it for some kind of defensive weapon, grabbed a glass vase off a side table, and rushed into the study.

"Sherlock!"

John heaved a sigh of relief when he found his omega standing in the middle of the room, safe and sound. Amalia hung off his arm, still weeping, apparently having found her way back into the house. Sherlock awkwardly patted her trembling shoulders and murmured soothing words.

At their feet lay another body, as lifeless as the alpha upstairs. The smell of blood hung heavy in the air here as well, which wasn't surprising given the copious amount which had soaked into the shag carpet. John cautiously approached the corpse: it was Sebastian Moran.

Just to be sure, however, John set the vase down, crouched next to the body, and felt for a pulse. There was none to be found either: the omega was dead.

"He killed himself..." John murmured, stunned, when he saw the deep cuts in the man's wrists.

*

The days and weeks following the Morans' deaths could only be described in one word: chaos.

That terrible night in Notting Hill acted as the catalyst which set one event after the other in motion like a chain of dominos.

Sebastian Moran had left a suicide note in which he confessed to being responsible for the murders of the six alphas as well as his own death. He assumed all of the blame and absolved all of the bonded omegas of any knowledge, much less complicity.

Sebastian had become acquainted with the omegas from selling them Seven back in his time as a drug dealer and amateur chemist. None of them had been able to stand the pain which their bond caused them, and had resorted to using the drug to numb themselves.

What had begun as a lucrative business for Sebastian had soon turned out to be much more. With increasing frequency, he heard sad stories of oppression, maltreatment, and abuse at the hand of the alphas. Stories that he had his own experiences with, his own alpha being just as cruel and sadistic.

At some point, Sebastian had no longer been able to stand the suffering and didn't want to stand by and watch omegas in his own family nor his customers suffer from their bonds.

He began to experiment with Seven to find a way to break a bond. Unfortunately, his attempts were unsuccessful, and he realised that the only way he could save the omegas was by making the alphas disappear. Their fate thus sealed, Sebastian refined the drug's formulation little by little until he created something that allowed for a bond to be broken without causing the death of the remaining partner.

The trial phase had claimed some omega victims at first, but by the third alpha's murder, the omega had survived.

His utmost goal all along was to free his family from the clutches of Lord Moran. Sebastian wasn't naturally a cold-blooded killer; the murders hadn't satisfied any base instinct in him. Yet he also made it clear that he didn't regret any of them, and that they had been a necessary means to an end.

Sebastian hadn't actually wanted to kill Augustus. But the arrest, Anastasia's brutal mistreatment, and Moran's threat to hand Sebastian over to another alpha permanently had forced him to act quickly. And when William had shown up at the house, posing another potential victim, Sebastian realised that his time had run out.

And so he'd knocked his family out with the aid of some sleeping pills dissolved in their tea, injected each of the other omegas with a strong dose of Seven, and killed Lord Moran. There hadn't been enough of the drug for him as well, and given the risk of dying of a broken bond upon his alpha's death – Sebastian hadn't wanted to allow Augustus that victory. And so he'd taken his own life.

Amalia said she'd had a bad feeling that something was going to happen, and so had only drunk a small amount of the drugged tea that Sebastian had passed around. She woke up shortly after Moran was killed and dragged herself down to the ground floor, where she found Sebastian drawing his final breath.

Unfortunately, Augustus Moran's death claimed one final victim: Anastasia didn't survive either. In her already weakened state, without the support of Seven's effects, her body couldn't handle the rupture of the bond. She died in the hospital, the same night as Augustus and Sebastian.

The police, summoned by John and Sherlock, secured the scene and searched the property. They found Sebastian's drug laboratory in the garden shed, hidden behind a double wall.

If there hadn't been such a hullaballoo when they'd come the last time to pick up Augustus Moran for questioning regarding Sebastian, they might have found the lab earlier and prevented another murder. Even if none of the affected parties shed a tear for the Lord. Quite the opposite: they were all happy the killer had been found. Even if he couldn't be brought to justice anymore.

John secretly wondered whether to believe Sebastian's claim that the omegas hadn't known anything about the murders before the fact. How had Sebastian gained entry to their flats and houses? Why had none of the omegas been home at the time? And why had they all continued to take Seven, despite the fact that they supposedly hadn't known anything about the dampening effect it had on a broken bond? Why did they have additional supplies on hand if they weren't expecting their bond to be broken?

Neither he nor Sherlock brought up these inconsistencies with the police. And Scotland Yard only conducted a superficial investigation in that direction. They brought the omegas in for questioning one last time, compared their statements with Moran's confession, and closed the McKenzie file after just a few weeks.

The immense media pressure might have been partially responsible for the rapid conclusion to the case. Not only was this the first omega serial killer, but Sebastian's suicide note also had one additional effect on the public.

In one final act, the clever omega had sent his confession to various newspapers and television stations. He had also posted it on several internet sites, and distributed it to the few omega aid societies in existence. In doing so, Sebastian had ensured that no alpha police officer or judge could make his testimony disappear.

It was hard to believe the waves set in motion by Sebastian's admission. Several incredible things happened in quick succession. The public mobilised. Omegas rebelled. Betas rose up, and even many alphas who didn't want to sit by and watch omegas being treated unfairly joined the cause.

Someone must have smuggled the media a picture of the message on Moran's wall, as the movement proceeded from that moment on under the motto 'NEVER AGAIN'. The solidarity was unbelievably wide-ranging, and long overdue.

Of course there was still a long way to go before those omegas were afforded sufficient protection who needed it, and appropriate punishments meted out to violent alphas. But the stone had begun to roll, and nothing could stop it now.

To John and Sherlock's surprise, Mycroft turned out to be one of the biggest defenders and supporters of omega rights. It was thanks to him that the government was so quick to start debating possible changes to the law and set monies aside for various institutions. One of the first propositions was regarding the abolishment of polybonding.

Sebastian's special Seven formula had also been confiscated and was now the subject of official research into a heat blocker, which would be provided to any omegas who wanted it free of charge. Of course that was all future speculation; there was no guarantee of success. But the initial steps had been taken. Sherlock also did his part by handing over the results he had so far on his version of a heat blocker.

John was unspeakably proud of Sherlock, knowing as he did that it hadn't been easy for his omega to share the contents of his research – even though he could continue his experiments if he wished.

But for now, he had no desire to.

*

** _Several weeks later_ **

"John... _hngg_..."

John licked his lips hungrily as he took in the sight of Sherlock in the gentle light of the afternoon sun. His creamy white skin, contrasting so beautifully with the dark leather of his armchair. His bare legs, dangling on either side of the armrests. His long fingers holding his slim omega cock, jerking it rapidly up and down.

"You're so good at that... you're so sexy..."

_Get to know your bodies outside of a heat._

As much as John would have liked to replace Sherlock's hands with his own, to kneel before him and take his damp erection into his mouth – there was no way in hell he was going to ignore page 64 of the manual.

_Masturbate in front of each other. Show your partner what you like._

"I can't take anymore..." Sherlock whinged. He arched his back until only his arse and shoulders were touching the seat, and let out a stuttered moan.

John had to summon all of his willpower in order not to provide himself some relief. His cock was painfully hard, and standing out from his body like a rod. A fine rivulet of pre-come trickled down the shaft and seeped into his pubic hair.

It would have been so easy. It would only take a few pumping motions before... but he remained steadfast. His focus was supposed to be only on Sherlock.

"Good, yes. Let go now. Show me how you come."

John watched in fascination as a shudder rippled through Sherlock's body. His pink arsehole twitched and his balls contracted as Sherlock threw his head back and moaned out loud. He rubbed his wet cockhead one last time with his thumb, then climaxed.

"John..."

Creamy white semen erupted in two, then three spurts onto his flat stomach, and there was nothing in the world that could have kept John in his seat. He lowered himself between Sherlock's spread legs and licked the ejaculate off his quivering skin.

"Marvellous, Sherlock. That was breath-taking."

The omega graced him with a mild smile as he lazily stroked his softening cock.

"Your turn..."

*

Page 65: _Become acquainted with your bodies through your hands, lips, and tongue._  
"I just can't get enough of you. You taste too good!"

"Even now? Without any essence?" Sherlock laughed disbelievingly, only to emit a guttural moan a moment later.

John made a sound of agreement as he licked his way clockwise around Sherlock's sphincter. He tried to make his tongue as pointy as possible in order to thrust inside Sherlock's quivering body and coax more of the sounds he loved to hear out of his omega.

With one hand, John held Sherlock's arse cheeks apart while with the other he rapidly pumped Sherlock's trembling erection. Sherlock cried out when John established a steady rhythm. Slow and deliberate going in, fast on the way out, with a broad stroke of the tongue across the entire pucker. Back in, back out. Lick, poke, push, suck.

He would have needed another hand to stimulate his own cock. Instead, he had to make do with frotting against the mattress like an animal. It provided just enough friction to crank his arousal up to eleven, yet not quite enough to come.

It didn't take long before John felt the first muscle contraction with his tongue. Sherlock's moans had dissolved into disjointed babbling, and the omega's fingers were clenched around the headboard to steady himself.

John thrust one more time as far as he could through the tight ring, wiggling his tongue until hot semen spurted over his hand. Whimpering, he sucked at Sherlock's arsehole and felt another load of come flow down Sherlock's glans, to his great satisfaction.

"Oh God..."

Sherlock held himself up on his lower arms, still shaking, and watched with widened eyes as John licked the semen off his fingers with relish.

"I _love_ how you taste. Everywhere. Every part of you is delicious, no matter whether it's during a heat or not."

*

John's orgasm began deep inside, right where Sherlock fingers gently stroked the bundle of nerves. A prostate orgasm. A completely new experience for John, who was about to lose his mind from the dual stimulation – Sherlock's lips suckling on the head of his cock and one long finger up his arse.

Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes when his climax swept him away and he ejaculated several batches of come into Sherlock's mouth.

Something that felt that good couldn't possibly make him any less of an alpha. In his mind, he silently thanked Sherlock for his powers of persuasion. And of course page 67 of the handbook.

_Be brave and try something completely new._

*

"It won't go in any further, John... John... _John_... ahh... _please_..."

"Just a little more, Sherlock. Push back. Yeah... that's grand. You're doing so well. Just a tiny bit more... Does it hurt?"

"No... _hgnn_... it's just so big!"

"You still want me to fuck you afterwards, yeah?"

"Yes. Yes..."

"And aren't I bigger than this?"

"_Yes_..."

"Plus, you paid good money for it. It would be a shame to let it lie in the cupboard unused."

"What was I thinking?"

"You wanted to provoke me, didn't you?"

"Hmhm... _ohh_..."

"That's what you get then... almost there... here, feel this, Sherlock. It's all the way in now... God, you're so hot..."

Page 68: _Try out a toy to change up your routine._

*

One Friday afternoon, about 10 weeks after the Morans' deaths, John came home from his shift and was greeted by a pervasive stench.

"Good God, Sherlock! What kind of experiment do you have going?"

He rushed into the kitchen and found his omega sullenly stirring a pot. Sherlock pursed his lips, stared into the brownish liquid, and wrinkled his nose. The smell seemed to disagree with him too.

"It's not an experiment. It's tea."

"Tea?" John echoed.

He watched dubiously as Sherlock used a ladle to scoop some of the foul-smelling brew into a cup, then sniffed at it.

"I think I'll pass and stick to water tonight. Or is there still some beer?" John opened the refrigerator and was pleased to find one last bottle of ale on the rack inside the door.

"The tea's not for you anyway," Sherlock muttered. He took a cautious sip of the concoction and grimaced in disgust. "God, that's foul."

"Then dump it," John laughed. "What's in there anyway? Old socks? Are you sure it's safe?"

Sherlock took another careful sip, shuddered, and poured the contents of the cup down the drain, along with what was left in the pot. He then took the bottle out of John's hand to neutralise the taste in his mouth. If Sherlock was voluntarily drinking beer, the tea must really be undrinkable, John surmised.

"I got the recipe from the manual," Sherlock mumbled between two swallows.

John made an inquisitive sound as Sherlock handed him back the bottle and leaned over for a welcome kiss. John placed one hand on Sherlock's nape and returned the kiss before brushing his nose against his pale neck to breathe in his omega's familiar scent. Sherlock also nuzzled into the crook of John's neck and inhaled deeply.

"It's supposed to help trigger a heat," Sherlock whispered into John's skin.

John sighed and set the bottle down on the counter so that he could pull his omega into a tighter embrace. He ran his hand soothingly over Sherlock's hair, the back of his neck, and his tense back. He knew Sherlock was having a hard time waiting for his heat to start. Although their sex life over the past few weeks had been extremely fulfilling and John was completely happy and satisfied, the lack of a heat overshadowed their relationship. Not that John was missing anything. But he'd caught glimpses here and there of Sherlock furtively taking his temperature, checking the calendar, and unconsciously rubbing the scar on his nape. He was restless.

John was fully aware of the irony of the situation. The omega who had fought his biology all his life now wished for a regular cycle and was looking forward eagerly to his next heat.

Sherlock was a good two months overdue based on the length of time between his first two heats, if the textbooks were to be believed. The doctor in John said there was nothing to worry about, but his alpha side was anxious anyway. Especially as his interest was piqued by the desire Sherlock had expressed to renew their bond.

The idea of them professing their loyalty to each other, deliberately and purposefully this time, would place their relationship on a whole new level, romantically speaking.

Maybe Sherlock was putting too much pressure on himself because of that? The stress of the McKenzie case or even Lord Moran's salacious advances might also have played a part in throwing off his omega cycle. If one could even speak of regularity in this instance. In fact they'd only shared two heats.

And yet his omega was unhappy – a circumstance which John couldn't allow to continue.

"Give it some more time, Sherlock."

"Time," Sherlock fumed. "How much longer will it be? When we met Moran, I was certain my heat was about to begin. And now? Nothing for weeks. It's driving me mad!"

Sherlock tore himself angrily out of the hug, tossed his hands in the air, and stomped into the living room, where he collapsed onto the couch with a dramatic sigh.

Shaking his head indulgently, John followed him into the next room. Not too long ago, Sherlock's diva attitude would have infuriated him. But now, he found it downright endearing – at least sometimes. With a smirk on his face, he poked and prodded at Sherlock until he could sit down on the couch with his omega's head resting in his lap. He began to comb through Sherlock's hair with both hands until the tension drained from his body.

"I used to try everything not to have another heat," Sherlock murmured quietly into John's shirt.

"I know," John agreed, letting his fingers wander around to the back of Sherlock's neck so he could massage the tight muscles there.

"I ran experiments, swallowed pills, injected sera, and took drugs."

John pulled a face at the list, but tried not to let his discomfort show, making only an affirmative sound.

"What if I did myself permanent damage? What if... if..."

"If what?" John prompted gently.

"What if I'm a freak?"

"Oh, Sherlock, that's—"

"—nonsense?" Sherlock interrupted harshly. He dragged himself into a sitting position and gave John a searching look.

"Yes!" John agreed. "That's utter nonsense. You're not a freak! You've never been one, and you never will be. Don't talk about yourself like that!"

"And what if I never have another heat? What if I'm... I'm... broken?"

"Sherlock!" John regarded the distraught man with an insistent expression. He hoped Sherlock could read his emotions in his face. "You're not broken. Even if you never have another heat..."

"Will you find yourself another omega?"

"…I'll still love you with every piece of my heart."

+++

tbc


	30. Chapter 30

**III.**

Thirteen weeks after the tragic deaths of Sebastian and Augustus Moran, Sherlock finally decided to seek out professional help. He'd been waiting three months for his next heat, but none of the usual symptoms had appeared. On the contrary, Sherlock felt almost exactly the way he had during the five years he'd spent living apart from John. A time in which he – as planned – hadn't undergone a single heat. It was downright ironic that it had failed to materialise now that he and John were together and happy, and he wanted to voluntarily renew his bond with his alpha.

The McKenzie case was done and dusted, the dead buried, and the survivors cared for. The omegas who had survived the rupture of their bond with Lord Moran had been admitted to therapeutic facilities until they recovered. After that they were allowed to return to the villa.

Sherlock called Amalia from time to time, and it was during one of those phone calls that he discovered she and the other omegas had decided to sell the house. They divided the proceeds amongst themselves so that each had a small nest egg to build a new life with. As for her, she rented a studio flat in Greenwich and began to work in a neighbourhood theatre.

After a while, she reported with pride that her scent had normalised, the imbalance caused by the polybond slowly but surely disappearing. She occasionally met up with the other omegas from the Moran family, but by and large each went their own way. The others' scents were also changing so that they became less and less familiar to each other with every meeting.

Beyond that, the upheaval which had been set in motion by the Never Again movement continued apace. The four Moran omegas were constantly being interviewed and invited to talk shows and events related to the new consciousness surrounding omegahood. As a result, they achieved a level of fame they weren't exactly comfortable with.

On the one hand, they were happy that the status of omegas in society was being rethought in the wake of their experiences. But at the same time, they often felt misunderstood and exposed, especially when their former way of life was regarded with distaste or even disgust. In addition, they became even more afraid of those alphas who were against such societal changes, rather than less. The fear of venturing out alone on the street and finding themselves in a situation without an ally present was such that they withdrew more and more from public life.

Sherlock was frustrated to see that the status quo remained in place or even worsened, despite the positive changes rippling through society. A transition such as this didn't take place overnight. It would take many months if not years before equal rights for omegas were achieved, and everyone needed to do their part.

Sherlock let out a heavy sigh and kneaded his hands in his lap. He noticed the woman sitting across from him kept glancing over at him as she nervously flipped through a magazine. Her sweet scent betrayed the fact that she was also an omega. Sherlock assumed she was waiting for important medical test results – perhaps a pregnancy test or a test for some disease – which would explain her nervousness. When their eyes met, she blushed at being caught and lifted the magazine a little higher to hide her face behind it.

The cover advertised an interview with Richard Moran, who had married a beta barely three months after the rupture, and was planning a move to Liverpool. It was hard to say whether it was a knee-jerk reaction to the media scrutiny, or whether Richard had perhaps even met his new partner during his bond with Lord Moran. At any rate, Sherlock found the plan to be hasty and ill-considered, but in the end it was none of his business how Richard wanted to conduct his life from here on out.

"Mr Holmes?" A nurse entered the waiting room and looked at Sherlock expectantly. "You can go into treatment room four now. The doctor will be right with you."

"All right, thank you," Sherlock said and stood up. The nurse held out her arm, and he went in the direction she indicated and stepped into the cubicle. Along with a computer console, there was an examination table, two metal cabinets with several drawers, an ultrasound machine on a trolley, and various depictions of male and female omega anatomy hanging on the walls. It looked completely different than on his first visit: much more impersonal. As if several different doctors used the space. The lack of a writing desk and chair puzzled Sherlock most of all.

Mike Stamford came in a short while later. "Sherlock! Nice to see you." He closed the door and held out his hand. Sherlock took it and returned the greeting curtly.

"What happened to your other consulting room, Mike?" Sherlock asked.

"Oh yeah, sorry about that. It's not very inviting at the moment, is it? But it's just temporary. We're renovating! The Department for Omega Medicine is getting a new wing with its own laboratories. The number of patients has exploded in the last few months, so much so that we can't keep up with demand. An incentive programme for young doctors is being launched soon to give more of them foundational and advanced training in this area. We're even planning a special programme for omegas who are interested in a similar career. Isn't that wonderful?"

"Wow, that's... that's fantastic!"

"Yeah, and none of it would have been possible if we hadn't received such generous donations. The largest one came from the Morans, incidentally. They invested a large chunk of their holdings in Bart's, and divided the rest up amongst themselves," Stamford explained.

"Oh... I knew they'd each received a portion, but not that they'd donated most of it beforehand."

"That's how they wanted it. It wasn't supposed to be made a big deal of; after all, the four of them have enough grief dealing with the media circus. They actually wanted to name the wing after Sebastian, but the hospital put its foot down on that. No one wanted to have a killer's name hanging over the entrance," Mike said and chuckled sheepishly.

Sherlock frowned and was on the verge of protesting, but held his tongue. Upon consideration, the board was right: Sebastian was a murderer, even if he'd done it to help others. Of course a hospital couldn't boast a name with those connotations. "What name did they choose instead?" he asked.

"Well, Moran was also a no-go. None of the four wanted to be associated with that name any longer, as I'm sure you know. They consulted amongst themselves and eventually decided to name the wing Novikov, after—"

"Anastasia," Sherlock cut in with a look of surprise.

Mike nodded. "Exactly, her and Amalia Moran's maiden name."

"New child."

"Hm?"

"As far as I know, Novikov means something along the lines of 'new child'," Sherlock said.

"Really? I had no idea. I like it, and it suits as well because we're sure to be handling a lot of pregnancies and births in future. This movement for equal rights for omegas has led to a rise in pregnancies, surprisingly enough," Mike explained as he stood at the terminal to log into the computer.

"Is that right? I only hope those are planned and consensual pregnancies, and not attempts by certain alphas to tie their unwilling omegas to them more closely," Sherlock murmured, drawing his brows down grimly.

"I can understand how you might arrive at that conclusion. But I don't think it's useful to see the world solely in a negative light, Sherlock. I'm not saying something like that couldn't happen, and it would be horrible, but it's definitely not the norm. In most cases, it should be apparent if something like that has happened, and there are steps that can be taken."

"And what if it isn't?" Sherlock interrupted, his eyes flashing angrily at Mike. He shifted his weight impatiently from one leg to the other and pointed an accusing finger at the physician. "It's just as unlikely that everyone is following the new rules, or that every abused omega has the strength to stand up for themselves! The alphas who have always treated omegas like slaves or possessions aren't going to stop now, just because a law has changed and a couple of voices of protest have become louder!"

Mike raised both hands in a conciliatory gesture and looked down at the floor. "I know. I know, Sherlock... Still, I'd like to see the good in people and believe they're capable of changing. A bloody lot has happened in the past three months, and we're just at the beginning. A lot more will change if we all pull together."

Sherlock turned away peevishly and folded his arms across his chest. He couldn't explain why he was so easily upset by the topic; especially as he knew there were a lot of good things happening right now. He felt Mike's eyes on him but didn't know how to bring up heats of all things following his outburst without appearing foolish. He exhaled loudly and directed his attention to the large posters on the wall, examining a drawing of male omega anatomy.

Mike gave him a few extended seconds to collect himself before speaking again. "How are you doing, Sherlock? Can I do something for you?"

"The last time I was here," Sherlock began without turning around. "Do you remember what we talked about?"

Mike hesitated a moment, but then replied confidently, "Yes, we discussed the possibility of a soul bond between you and John. Has your feeling about that changed in any way?" he asked, his curiosity evident in his tone.

Sherlock turned around to give the doctor a searching look. "Did John ever contact you again? Did he tell you he was back in London?"

Mike chuckled softly, but it sounded more resigned than cheerful. "No, he didn't. To tell you the truth, we haven't had any contact since the day I introduced the two of you. I somehow got the sense he was offended. Er... not that... not that you've been bad for him. I'm not saying that," Mike hurried to clarify.

The right corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched upward of its own accord, bringing a mocking grin to his face. "Not at all, that's exactly what you're trying to say, and I can't blame you. John hasn't had an easy time of it with me. When he returned, he set up house with me and I did everything I could to make his life a living hell. At least until we both realised there was more than a run-of-the-mill bond connecting us," he said, with the air of sharing a secret.

It took a couple of heartbeats before Mike cottoned on, but when he did, he widened his eyes in surprise. "So the two of you really do have a... a soul bond?"

Sherlock nodded. "Looks that way."

"That's fantastic! How... does it feel?"

Sherlock thought about it for a moment, then shrugged. "It's difficult to describe. Sometimes we can feel or sense what the other one is feeling, either physically or emotionally. Even across great distances. It's... I don't know... as if I weren't alone anymore. John is always there, even when he's not physically present. He's a part of me, in the most literal sense. And I don't ever want to be without that again." Sherlock's gaze became unfocused as he thought of John. At any other time, he would have kicked himself for making such a pathetic statement. But he needed to make Mike understand how much John and the soul bond meant to him in order to explain the reason for this appointment.

"Fabulous, absolutely fabulous! Soul bonds are incredibly rare," Mike said excitedly. It was obvious that he had many more questions about this unusual type of bond. But they would have to discuss it another time.

"At any rate..." Sherlock scratched the back of his head sheepishly and tried to find the right words. "We've been together almost six months now, and have already shared two heats. It looked like my cycle had re-established itself on its own from having John nearby, but..." Sherlock cursed the shameful red that rose to his cheeks. He kept reminding himself that Mike was a doctor of omega medicine who was supposed to take a completely unemotional stance toward the topic, but he couldn't quite convince himself all the way.

"Your heats are still irregular?" Mike asked straightforwardly and returned to the console with the monitor so he could call up Sherlock's scanty patient records. As expected, his attitude was entirely professional. He didn't make any insinuations whatsoever, which Sherlock judged in his favour. "When was your first heat with John, and when was the last?"

"Er... the first one set in about a month or a month and a half after John's return, and the second almost exactly five weeks later."

"And nothing since?"

Sherlock shook his head regretfully.

"There can be lots of reasons for the absence of a heat. For one, hormonal fluctuations. Your body didn't experience a heat for over five years, in spite of being bonded, and might have been overwhelmed by the sudden change. Stress can be another relevant factor. Has anything happened over the last three months that might have upset you?"

Sherlock snorted incredulously. "You mean other than the Moran affair?"

Mike whirled around, away from the monitor, and gaped at Sherlock in astonishment. "You were involved in that?!" he asked with a combination of shock and awe.

Sherlock shrugged casually; apparently his involvement had gone unnoticed. "To a degree. I wanted to help the Yard solve the alpha murders. But as I'm sure you've heard, I was unsuccessful. Or at least, not fast enough. If I'd only seen what was behind the killings sooner, and acted..." Sherlock snapped his mouth shut and cast his gaze aside, aggrieved. He felt something cant to one side in his throat, making it almost impossible to swallow. He lowered his head and rubbed his eyes with his left index finger and thumb.

"Sherlock... You shouldn't blame yourself for what happened. I'm sure you did what you could," Mike pointed out.

Sherlock gave his head a brisk shake and blinked through the stinging at the corners of his eyes. "No, I didn't. I should have done more. I should have stopped all those people from dying. Even if those alphas..." He swallowed down the words _deserved it_ and cleared his throat before continuing. "I was much too absorbed in my own little dramas and in denial over having unwittingly entered into a soul bond. I think... I think part of me wanted to wallow in my own misery. I boycotted myself because I couldn't accept being an omega – a bonded one, no less – and didn't see how important this case was."

Mike exhaled slowly as he tried to find the right words. He then came closer to Sherlock and placed one hand on his shoulder. "I remember how unhappy you were the last time you sat in my consultation room. You were devastated, even if you didn't want anyone to see that. I can imagine you must have been going through an emotional roller coaster at the time, and it must have been the same if not worse when John returned. No one can expect you to function perfectly and solve a series of homicides on top of it when you're under all that stress, especially given all the changes you were going through. I'm sorry to have to tell you this, but even you are only—

"—an omega," Sherlock hissed.

"No," Mike objected. "Human. No alpha or beta would have fared any better than you in the same situation, Sherlock."

Several seconds passed in which neither man said anything. Mike was the one who finally spoke again.

"Why don't I give you a complete going-over to check for any physiological problems that might respond to medication. Starting with hormones, vitamins—"

"Mike?" Sherlock interrupted the doctor's summary.

"Hm?"

"I... was a longtime user of Seven. Could it... is it possible that... it did more damage than we know? The alpha hormones... The results of my last blood tests were almost indistinguishable from an alpha's," Sherlock said in a strained voice.

"Oh, hm... It might have something to do with the lack of a heat, but it's not necessarily the main factor. Do you still have those results?"

"Yes... but not here with me."

"No problem. It would be a good idea to have them sent to me though. We'll draw some blood today as well for comparison."

"All right." Sherlock unbuttoned the left cuff of his shirt with trembling fingers and rolled up the sleeve. His became abruptly aware of his pulse accelerating as a sense of shame rolled through him. Yet Mike said nothing when he saw the old scars in the crook of his arm. He gave no outward sign of having even noticed, much less understanding what they meant. Sherlock was grateful for his ignorance.

After Mike had drawn enough blood to run several tests, he asked Sherlock to give him his other arm to take his blood pressure. He felt the lymph nodes on his neck and checked the tissue around the bite mark. His touch was consistently slow and gentle, as if he were dealing with a wild animal that might flinch back or lash out at any second. After he completed the examination, he disinfected his hands again and made some notes while Sherlock buttoned his shirt back up.

"Okay, that's all for now. My first impression is that you appear to be completely healthy. We'll know more as soon as the lab results come back. Do you have any other questions or concerns?" Mike asked.

_Now or never._

"Yes, one question. John and I… we want to renew our bond. During the next heat... assuming I ever have one again. I haven't found any information regarding whether a fresh bite might pose a health risk for us," Sherlock said.

Mike made a contemplative sound. "There are a handful of studies on the effects of multiple bond bites, although the main focus is on what happens when an omega is bitten by several different alphas. There's a lot that can go wrong when that happens. The initial bond is broken, which can lead to the usual symptoms. At the same time, the omega is exposed to a cocktail of hormones carried by the second alpha's neurotransmitters. The physical stress is enormous, and can lead to permanent damage – not only physical, but also psychological."

Sherlock swallowed thickly. "Oh..."

"Yeah... but that outcome should only occur when different alphas are involved. An alpha normally wouldn't feel an urge to bite a bonded omega, since they release pheromones intended to repel a rival. But there are rare cases – not only during heats – when alphas are attracted by the pheromones rather than repelled. Basically a bug in the system," Mike explained.

Augustus Moran's disgusting grin materialised in Sherlock's mind's eye, causing him to shudder. The Lord's omegas might all have only been bonded with him, but there was no way of knowing whether he had felt an unnatural desire for Sherlock – a bonded omega – which he would have pursued given the chance.

"There shouldn't be any problems when renewing an existing bond. If both of you want to and are willing to do it. The… initial bite was somewhat… how should I put it… unorthodox, wasn't it?" Mike probed cautiously.

Sherlock snorted at the memory, amused. "Well, we barely knew each other. And I wasn't in heat. We basically skipped all the usual steps and went straight to the end. I didn't want to be in a relationship with him at all; I simply wanted to make use of the advantages of being bonded while he was in Afghanistan."

Mike frowned and scratched a spot under his right ear. "I see… That must have hurt quite a bit outside of a heat, didn't it?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and concentrated on straightening his cuffs so that he didn't have to look at Mike. "Of course. I mean, he had to bite down hard enough to draw blood. I can't imagine that it wouldn't hurt."

"Well, that's the point. A bond between an alpha and an omega is generally consummated during a heat, for the specific reason that the processes which the body undergoes ensure that the omega doesn't feel any pain. It's similar to intercourse. Outside of a heat, penetration by the alpha may be perceived as unpleasant or even painful, especially if the omega hasn't been fully prepared. During a heat, the omega's body adjusts to the demands of the act automatically. Muscles relax, essence is produced, and all of that is necessary for the omega's body to fully accept a knot. Pleasure hormones are produced that have a euphoria-inducing and pain-killing effect. Many even report the bite as being pleasurable."

"Pleasurable," Sherlock echoed flatly. He couldn't for the life of him imagine that such a deep bite as was necessary to consummate a bond could have such contradictory effects.

"Have you spoken to John about your concerns?"

"What concerns? I'm not concerned! I was the one who suggested renewing the bond in the first place!" Sherlock cried indignantly.

"I believe you, Sherlock, I do. And yet it seems as if there are two opposing forces within you. One being the desire to renew the bond, and the other fear of the pain."

"That's irrational!" Sherlock grumbled.

"Not at all. You've experienced that pain. It's branded itself in your memory, and even though there are countless sources which predict the opposite will occur, part of you isn't convinced – precisely because of your own experience. I wouldn't be surprised if that fear is part of the reason you haven't gone into heat. Sort of a subconscious protective mechanism," Mike expounded.

Sherlock couldn't help it: the notion that he both wanted and didn't want to renew their bond seemed utterly absurd to him. Or was he just fooling himself? Did he really not want to renew the bond? He loved John, he was utterly convinced of that fact, and they'd been bonded for more than five years now. There was no sign of it becoming weaker; on the contrary. So why should they renew it? Was all of this emotional upheaval even sensible?

It was true that John had seemed enthusiastic at the prospect of a renewal. But he'd also made it clear that the decision came down to Sherlock in the end. Would he be angry if Sherlock changed his mind now?

"I understand."

"Let's wait for the test results before jumping to conclusions, all right? This whole affair may be resolved quicker than we thought."

"Fine," Sherlock replied, although he wasn't very hopeful. He shook Mike's hand good-bye, and left the examination room.

*

Back in the flat on Baker Street, Sherlock took off his jacket and shoes before dropping into his leather armchair with a sigh. He knew John was home from the heavy scent of his alpha hanging in the air. However, Sherlock could only guess why he'd gone up to the second floor.

Since John could also smell him over such a short distance, it didn't take long before he came down the stairs to greet his omega. He held a dark red knitted jumper in one hand. He still hadn't brought all of his clothes down to the bedroom, since Sherlock also kept various disguises in the wardrobe which he occasionally used during investigations, in addition to his own clothes.  
"Hey, Sherlock. How did the appointment go?"

Sherlock had one arm propped up on the armrest, his head leaning against his fist. He blinked morosely up at John and twisted his mouth in a moue of distaste. "Mike complained that you never told him you were back in London," he said, avoiding the question.

John sat down on his chair opposite and rested his elbows on his knees so he could lean toward Sherlock. He gave him a searching look. "He's not wrong... Somehow it never came up. Although I can't say we were in close contact before either. We were more like study buddies," John offered as a half-hearted defence.

"That's what I thought. Although I have noticed that you don't exactly boast a large number of friends. You never go out with people from work, and the only people I know from your past are Mike, Wilhelmina, Cilia, and Sholto; and I've never met any of them besides Mike. You don't even visit your family. When was the last time you saw them? Have you visited them at all since you've been back in London?"

"Why are you suddenly so interested in my family?" John asked warily.

"Why can't you answer one question, just once, without asking a question in return?!" Sherlock cried with unexpected sharpness.

John flinched back as if he'd been shoved, furrowed his brow in confusion and redirected his gaze off to the side. "The last time I saw Harry was almost four years ago. At Christmas. We wrote letters back and forth a few times after that, but even that contact broke off two years ago. It's not unusual; we were never particularly close... It's about the same with my parents."

"You should change that. Who knows how much longer they'll be around, and then it will be too late!" Sherlock insisted angrily.

John slid off the seat of the chair, knelt down on the carpet in front of Sherlock, and clasped his hands. "What's wrong? What's happened?"

Sherlock shook his head slowly, his lips pressed together until little more than a white line remained. He blinked rapidly against the moisture that blurred his vision.

"I don't know," he whispered.

John rose up and pulled Sherlock into his arms, eschewing any further questions.

It wasn't until they were sitting in the kitchen with a cup of tea that Sherlock opened up about his meeting with the doctor and everything that might have discombobulated his system. John was shocked to hear that Sherlock had experienced so much pain when they'd consummated their bond all those years ago. He clasped Sherlock's hands, raining kisses on them as he apologised.

"It's not your fault. You even warned me back then, but I didn't want to listen," Sherlock said. In fact, if anything he was even more sorry that John was beating himself up over this so much. "Anyway, that might not even be the reason I haven't gone into heat. I might have ruined my health with Seven, and—" When Sherlock saw John's pained grimace, he realised how those words must sound to his alpha.

"No, John, don't... Don't blame yourself for me taking Seven. You couldn't know that I was sensing you. I never tried to contact you to explain what was going on with me. So you see... if blame is to be placed on anyone for my condition, it should all fall on me."

"No," John rasped between Sherlock's fingers. "We're both to blame. We ran headlong into this bond without considering the consequences first. But we couldn't know that it wasn't just our bodies that would bond, but our souls as well."

Sherlock lowered his head. He was overcome with emotion at the fact that John was so willing to accept responsibility for this mess, and he was ashamed for ever having doubted his alpha.

But John wasn't done: "You're the best thing that's ever happened to me."

When John tugged at his hand, guiding Sherlock around the table onto his lap, Sherlock followed eagerly, folding himself into John's arms as best he could. He buried his face in the crook of John's neck and inhaled the familiar scent there with stuttering breaths. It took a concerted effort on his part to prevent a soft whine from escaping as John rubbed his back with continuous, soothing strokes.

*

Three days later, Sherlock received a phone call. When he saw the number of St Bart's on the screen, his stomach squeezed unpleasantly. He cleared his throat to banish the sense of foreboding from his throat, answered the call, and gave his name. Mike Stamford greeted him on the other end.

"Good news. Your blood panels are completely normal. We compared them to the old results that you sent us, and we can confirm with absolute certainty the absence of any alpha hormones which might be influencing your cycle. The other tests all came back negative as well. You're fit as a fiddle, Sherlock," Mike said cheerfully.

Sherlock became acutely aware of something hard loosening in his chest and sliding into his stomach. A combination of relief and some nameless fear rippled through his body. "But what does that mean? What's wrong with me?" he asked urgently.

John, who had been watching the news up to now, turned the television off and looked over at Sherlock with a concerned expression.

"I can't say what the exact cause is of your missing heat. But it's nothing physical. It's probably the stress that's been caused by fear and your own expectations. The only thing I can recommend is that you relax and let things take their course. If you're able, you might consider getting away for a holiday."

"A holiday?" Sherlock echoed, indignant.

"Yes, putting some space between yourselves and the daily grind, including your flat, might just be enough to get your mind on other things and not constantly think about your next heat and all of the associated hopes and fears. Give yourself a time out from all of that and just enjoy what you have. I'd wager that's probably something you've never really allowed yourself," Mike said.

Sherlock ground his teeth, disgruntled, and squeezed his free hand into a fist at his side.

"All right, fine," he growled. "Thanks for the information." Without waiting to see if Mike had anything to add, Sherlock ended the call and hurled his phone onto his armchair. The device bounced off the backrest, leapt off the seat cushion, and skidded across the carpet to the other side of the room.

"What did he say?" John asked warily.

"I'm physically fine, but my mind's gone loopy," Sherlock replied dryly and marched into the kitchen. "Mike suggests we go on holiday."

"On holiday? No wonder you're so upset," John jested, but when Sherlock stopped in his tracks and shot him an angry glare over his shoulder, he cleared his throat as if to drown out what he'd just said.

Several long seconds passed during which Sherlock stared at an invisible point in the middle of the living room, considering how to proceed. A holiday was out of the question, but he would certainly be able to find a distraction. Perhaps he could convince Molly to give him access to a corpse he could perform various experiments—

"Listen..." John said gently, bringing Sherlock back to the present. "A holiday actually doesn't sound that bad. I'd just need to make sure it doesn't collide with anyone else's plans at work. We could get away for a couple of days and see what happens. After all the stress recently, it would do me good as well."

Sherlock gave John a searching look, then rolled his eyes and curled his lip. "Oh really? And where would you want to go? To the beach? The mountains?" He spat out the travel destinations as if they were rotten fruits, and folded his arms defensively across his chest.

"To my parents," John said, and grinned.

+++

tbc


	31. Chapter 31

It took a couple of days until John was able to organise some time off, let his parents know about their visit, and use all of his powers of persuasion to convince Sherlock to go away with him. But now they were in the train heading for West Bromwich, and John was growing more nervous with every passing kilometre.

Of course he was well aware that Sherlock had only mentioned John's lack of contact with his family and friends as a distraction from his insecurity following his appointment with Mike. Still, his omega had touched on a sore spot and was completely correct with his accusation that John had been isolating himself.

He'd burned all of his bridges when he returned wounded from Afghanistan, if not before. It was only due to his lack of other options at the time that he'd sought refuge with Sherlock. As a result, he was accordingly ambivalent about coming face to face with his family again.

His parents had been so proud of their son. The doctor, the soldier, the alpha. Although he no longer felt like a caricature and was completely happy for the first time in his life, he still felt a certain degree of apprehension and wondered whether his family was disappointed in him. The fact that his mother had burst out in tears when he'd called, coupled with her obvious joy over his announced visit, alleviated his concerns for the most part, however.

What wasn't so easy to set aside was the shame that lurked somewhere deep inside him. Shame over the working-class conditions he'd grown up in, and which Sherlock had deduced with such pinpoint accuracy at their first meeting. Shame over the tiny, run-down shack he'd grown up in. Shame over his amiable yet unsophisticated parents. Yet at the same time, he felt bad for being ashamed of his background; his parents didn't deserve that.

Still, he couldn't for the life of him imagine his omega in such shabby surroundings. He hoped fervently that he wouldn't come to regret his decision to introduce Sherlock to his family. Both sides deserved to meet each other after all this time.

"Stop worrying. I can fairly hear you ruminating. It's exhausting!"

Having been caught, John exhaled and regarded the omega sitting across from him fondly. Sherlock was sprawled out in his seat as far as possible, and had been dozing since they'd changed trains in Birmingham. But apparently John's whirling thoughts hadn't escaped him, even half asleep.

"Easy for you to say, you posh toff. You haven't got anything to be ashamed of."

"Nothing to be ashamed of," Sherlock snorted disdainfully and lazily peeled his eyes open to blink at John. "You have met Mycroft, have you not?"

He would have liked to laugh heartily at Sherlock's jab towards his brother, but he simply wasn't in the mood. Instead, he gazed reflectively out the window, watching the landscape pass by.

"It's not the same, Sherlock," he murmured after several minutes of silence. "Your parents were so rich, you probably can't begin to imagine how I grew up."

"So?" Sherlock said, leaning his head against the windowpane to study John's profile. "Are you worried I'll think poorly of you? Don't you think I know how poor your family is already? I saw it in the first five seconds after we met."

"I know!" John shook his head, half amused and half indignant. "That wasn't very flattering."

"I thought you wanted me to meet your family? Otherwise you wouldn't have tried so hard to talk me into this mini-break."

"I do... it's just... I don't know."

A leather-clad foot tapped against John's ankle, wandering up to apply gentle pressure to his calf. John tore his eyes away from the window and moved them onto Sherlock, who was watching him with a one-sided smile.

"I'm sorry I offended you. I was young, naïve, and didn't realise that I could hurt other people with my deductions."

"And you're different now?" John laughed.

"No, but now I have you to tell me when I've gone too far." Sherlock grinned and winked at John. "My point is, then as now I don't care whether your family's rich or poor. I've never concerned myself with things like that. All I know is that they raised a good person who's a wonderful partner and alpha. It's about time someone told them that in person."

John swallowed past the lump forming in his throat and leaned across the small table separating them. He framed Sherlock's face with his hands and placed a firm kiss on his soft lips.

"I love you."

"I love you too."

*

At the West Bromwich station, John wiped his sweaty palms off on his jeans, shouldered his travel bag, and gave Sherlock a smile infused with more confidence than he felt.

"Ready?"

"Ready if you are," Sherlock replied. He grabbed the handle of his roller suitcase and gave John a look as if to say, 'get on with it then.'

They left the platform together and ascended a gently sloping ramp to the street. His mother had promised they would be met at the station, rejecting out of hand his protest that they could take a taxi.

John craned his neck, looking for his parents' car. But rather than the dark blue Ford Focus, a beat-up silver Golf pulled up in front of them, its brakes squealing.

"Oh fuck... not on top of everything else," John grumbled with exasperation when he recognised his sister's car.

Harry opened the driver's door and got out. She gave John, then Sherlock, an assessing look from head to toe before instinctively straightening her posture as if trying to minimise the significant height difference between herself and Sherlock.

"Harry!" John exclaimed through gritted teeth. "Nice to see you. May I present Sherlock?"

Harry tilted her head to one side, ignoring the hand Sherlock held out in greeting.

"Can I even touch him? Or will you tear me to pieces if I lay a finger on your omega?"

"Don't be daft, Harry," John growled. "I only expect you to treat Sherlock with respect."

Harry threw her head back and roared with laughter. "I'm only having you on, Johnny. Don't get so worked up." She reached for Sherlock's suitcase and walked around the car to open the boot. "I'll take care of this, seeing as you're an alpha and apparently unable to hoist a bag."

Harry was aiming for a joking tone, but neither John – and especially not Sherlock – failed to notice that she neither shook the omega's hand nor spoke to him directly.

Once she'd stowed John's bag away too, Harry opened the rear passenger door and gestured vaguely toward the cluttered interior.

"Sorry, the car's a right mess. There's not enough room for the two of you to sit together in the back. But you won't mind being separated for a bit, will you?"

"Of course not," John assented. "Sherlock, you sit in front, I'll—"

"Oh, can't do that, Johnny. The passenger seat can't move back and your omega's too tall. He'll have to sit in the back."

John felt his patience slowly but surely wearing thin until it hung by a thread. There was nothing new about Harry's low opinion of classic alpha-omega relationships. But it was unacceptable for her to behave in such a disparaging manner. Sherlock seemed to instinctively sense that John was about to explode, and placed a calming hand on his lower back.

"It's fine, John. I'm fine with sitting in the back."

With those words, he pushed past Harry and slid onto the back seat of the vehicle. John stalked around the car, snarling, and got into the front passenger seat.

The drive to the Watsons' homestead passed in silence until John brought up the question of why Harry was in West Bromwich in the first place, playing the welcoming committee in place of their parents.

"Didn't Mum tell you on the phone? I'm in the midst of a career transition, so I've been living back here for a couple of weeks now. Just temporarily, of course. I offered to fetch you so Mum can finish baking. Or cooking. Who knows."

"You're changing jobs?" John asked, surprised. "What happened to your London job? And your flat? When I last visited, things were going so well for you."

"What can I say, Johnny? Not everyone is as fortunate in their life as you, now are they?"

Harry was gripping the steering wheel so hard that the knuckles of her small hands were white. She flipped down the indicator with more force than necessary and turned onto their parents' street with the tyres squealing.

"Harry..."

"No, drop it. I don't want to talk about it." Harry parked the car with a jerk in the narrow driveway of their parents' house, and reared on John with a furious expression. "Actually, I don't want to talk to you at all. Especially not with your little omega hanging around."

Before John could formulate a reply, Harry had climbed out of the car, slammed the door behind her, and marched down the road, presumably in the direction of the nearest pub.

John pinched the bridge of his nose grimly. He felt a sharp pain originating in his temples and radiating out to his eyes. He sighed and turned halfway in his seat so he could see Sherlock.

"Sorry about that. That wasn't exactly the welcome I'd pictured for you. But Harry's just..."

"...a bitch?"

"Yes, that," John agreed bitterly. "If I'd known she might be here, I never would have brought you. My mother knew that full well, so that's why she didn't say anything."

Sherlock shrugged and opened the door so he could get out of the car. Before closing the door again behind him, he leaned down to look through the back seat at John, giving him an encouraging smile. "Come on. We're here now, so let's make the best of it."

Together they took the luggage out of the boot, and then John reached for Sherlock's suitcase along with his bag. Harry's jab that he didn't even carry his omega's things had struck a surprising nerve. Did he act too little like an alpha? Was that one of the reasons that Sherlock hadn't had another heat? Had Sherlock's independence and autonomy made John _weak_?

Sherlock clicked his tongue derisively, just as if he had read John's mind. But he did leave his suitcase in John's care and followed one step behind him up to the front door. Before John could even ring the bell, the door was flung open and Mrs Watson had dragged her son into her arms.

"My boy," she sobbed. "It's so good to see you."

"Mum..." John murmured gently, set the bags down on the floor, and patted the woman's shaking shoulders awkwardly.

He unobtrusively inhaled his mother's scent. Of course he wasn't _scenting_ her; betas didn't possess a characteristic personal smell like alphas and omegas did. Still, he recognised the familiar odours of hairspray, freshly baked cake, and Earl Grey. He instantly felt himself thrown back to a distant past. To a sense of comfort, safety, and home port. Suddenly grateful to be back here, he wrapped his arms around his mother's diminutive form and held her close to his chest.

The soft sound of a throat clearing behind him pulled John out of the embrace just a few seconds later. Embarrassed by his uncharacteristic display of sentiment, he rubbed the damp corner of one eye with his thumb and took a step back. He faced his mother and smiled.

"Mum, may I present Sherlock?"

*

It came as no surprise to John that his mother was utterly enchanted by his charming omega. She yakked away as she poured tea, coffee, or milk into various cups and served her guests freshly-baked biscuits. His father appeared to be taken with Sherlock as well. During the course of the afternoon, he nodded benevolently in John's direction several times, giving him to understand that he'd made a good choice. Like John, his father was a man of few words; the nonverbal approval therefore spoke for itself.

Sherlock was the one who surprised John in his family's tiny lounge. Although his omega had acted rather quiet and uncharacteristically shy upon their arrival, he was now warming up. He seemed to genuinely feel at ease chatting with 'please call me Lorraine, after all you're my son-in-law' and shared the last spot of tea from the thermos with 'I'm George, Mr Watson was my father.'

With every minute that passed, another bit of John's anxiety vanished, and he was excited to watch the people he loved most getting along so well together. When his mother began telling anecdotes from his childhood and hauled out the old photo albums, Sherlock's easy laughter warmed John's insides. He would have liked to nudge aside the curls tumbling across Sherlock's forehead as he leafed through page after page and listened intently to the accompanying stories. Sherlock deduced a connection here and there, quite spontaneously as was his way, putting Lorraine and George Watson in a jolly mood.

Later that afternoon, when John was helping his mother with the washing up and Sherlock was perusing the third photo album with John's father, Lorraine looked at her son with a fond expression.

"He's simply wonderful, Johnny."

"Yes, that he is," John replied, and didn't even try to hold back the satisfied smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"You're blushing." She laughed affectionately and rubbed John's cheek with her thumb, still wet with dishwater.

"Mum..."

"I won't say anything more. It's simply so nice to have you here – both of you – and see how happy you are. You deserved it, son. I've never seen you beaming like this. He's good for you."

"He is. He's the best thing that could have happened to me, and I'm so glad we can finally be together."

John's mother tilted her head to one side and gave John a shrewd look. "But?"

"No buts."

"John Hamish Watson, don't you lie to me. I may be getting old, and we haven't seen each other in a while. But I'll always be your mother and I can tell when something's bothering you. So what is it?"

Lorraine pulled the plug out of the sink, allowing the contents to gurgle down the drain. John watched the whirlpool of water and soap suds, brooding. He cleared his throat and folded the towel he'd just been drying the dishes with into a neat rectangle.

"I don't know if I want to discuss this topic with you," he eventually said evasively.

"I'm your mother, Johnny."

"Exactly."

"You can tell me anything, son. Is it..." She made a vague gesture toward John's lower body. "Can you not... anymore? Because of your injury?"

"What? No!" John cried, aghast. "That's not it. It's... Sherlock. He hasn't been going into heat, and it's killing him. It's killing us because we don't know what the problem is. We've tried everything and then some. Sherlock saw a doctor. There's nothing wrong, and he still isn't going into heat. As a beta, you wouldn't understand, but it's—"

"Stuff and nonsense," Lorraine interrupted sympathetically. "I may not know heats, but I know exactly what it feels like when your body doesn't do what you want it to."

"What do you mean?" John asked, eyeing his mother dubiously.

Lorraine went to the door and peeked into the lounge to make sure Sherlock and George were still occupied before turning back to John.

"Back when Harry had just turned two, we were set on having another wee one. But no matter how many times we tried, it just wasn't happening. Your father and I tried everything. We went to all sorts of doctors, took pills and even tried some miracle cures or other, but it just didn't work. At some point we resigned ourselves to it simply not being in the cards for us to bring another life into the world. And so we forgot about family planning. We had sex whenever we felt like it and not when the calendar told us to. And then – not even a year later – I fell pregnant with you. You were our little miracle, Johnny. Our perfect little miracle. A beautiful, healthy boy. An _alpha_. We were so incredibly grateful..."

John scratched the back of his head reflectively. His mother's words made a lot of sense. Stories like that were fairly commonplace. Even if it wasn't directly applicable to omega biology, there was no denying the similarity to their situation. Mike Stamford had also recommended that Sherlock simply relax and let things play out.

"So you think we're just too uptight?" John double-checked.

"That's what I'm trying to say. Take your time, enjoy your relationship. Have fun together. Your Sherlock will have another heat very soon, mark my words."

"That – or you should just act more like a real alpha," a voice lisped mockingly from the back door. "You don't carry suitcases; you do the dishes. Maybe you just aren't man enough to turn your little omega on properly."

"Harriet!" Lorrain hissed angrily. "Get a hold of that loose tongue of yours and apologise to your brother this instant!"

"Turn on... the heat... get it, Johnny?" Harry laughed at her own joke, obviously drunk. She took two wobbly steps in John's direction and poked his chest sharply with her index finger. "Don't take it personal, baby bro. You know I'm just having you on." And turning to her mother: "I'm going to have a kip until dinner's ready."

*

Harry's return put an abrupt damper on the cheery mood in the Watson household. John at least felt as if the walls were closing in on him and cutting off his air supply. He spontaneously decided to take a walk and show Sherlock his old neighbourhood.

They took a left in front of his parents' house and strolled down the residential street to the next intersection. There, they turned the corner and walked along silently until John stopped in front of the venerable edifice which housed his old primary school. The imposing bell tower in the centre of the small complex had always fascinated John, thanks to its abstract design with crenelations and a weathervane on the top. He had always been proud of attending school here.

"This is a private school," Sherlock said beside him, keeping his voice low. "You went here?"

"Yep."

"Ah," Sherlock said, signalling his understanding. "A special scheme to promote children from underprivileges families."

John nodded and turned around. "Alpha children from underprivileged families. Not that we understood stuff like that at that age. I transferred to the regular state school later on. No one really cared about my alpha status there either. That didn't come until later. Now that I think about it, I hardly knew any other alphas. Much less omegas. All of the friends I ran around with were betas. How about you?"

John looked at Sherlock with open curiosity as the latter regarded the bell tower pensively.

"Private lessons and tutors. I had barely any contact with other children. My uncle and Mycroft ensured that I had an excellent education, of course. Literature, early music lessons, art, ballet. As one would expect for an omega from a distinguished family."

John barked out an incredulous laugh. "How long did it take until you rebelled?"

Sherlock shrugged and tore his gaze away from the face of the tower clock. "Long enough, if you ask me. Too soon, according to Mycroft. It was a... lonely childhood. But perhaps that's simply an omega's lot. Or just mine..."

"Sherlock..."

Empathy for his omega wrapped itself around John's heart like an iron fist and squeezed mercilessly. But Sherlock shook off the dark thoughts with a jerky head movement and shot John a smile.

"That's all in the distant past, John. Let's not allow ancient shadows to dampen our mood. Your sister's managed that well enough on her own." Sherlock winked and grabbed John's hand, tugging him onward. "Show me more."

John led Sherlock past the park where he'd mastered his first rugby matches and over to the small pond he'd fallen into one winter because he'd been convinced the ice was thick enough. Fortunately, the water was only knee-deep, and John had been able to rescue himself to the sound of his friends' teasing. The rustic pub where all the cool kids met up when he was a teenager, and site of his first drunk escapades, was only three streets away from his parents' house but had unfortunately been turned into a modern barbecue bar and grill after the old owner had died several years ago. John didn't even recognise the huge mall that had been erected on the fields west of the highway. It didn't hold much interest for them, so they soon headed back.

John's mind was still stuck on Sherlock's brief glimpse into his childhood. John might have grown up in less privileged circumstances, but he'd never felt lonely. His parents, sister, or friends had always been around. Despite John's lack of financial advantages, it was Sherlock who had missed out on many things. In hindsight, John wouldn't have wanted to trade places for all the money in the world. The realisation came as a surprise to him. Apparently it was time to close the chapter on shame and regret, and to be grateful for what his family had made possible for him despite their situation.

*

Dinner was almost ready when they returned to John's parents' house. The aroma of a pot roast wafted through the air, making John's stomach emit a hungry growl. His mother's down-home cooking was excellent. Seldom refined or imaginative, but consistently simple and hearty, just like his family. John caught Sherlock sniffing the air inquisitively out of the corner of his eye.

Cocooned in his expensive wool coat, his hair tousled, his cheeks and the tip of his nose red from the fresh autumn air, Sherlock seemed out of place in the plain entryway; and yet he belonged here. The same way he belonged to John.

John waited until Sherlock had removed his Belstaff and hung it on the coatrack before he moved in and placed his hands on Sherlock's cheeks.

He pressed a kiss onto Sherlock's cool lips and gave him a heartfelt smile. "I'm glad we're here."

They went into the living room together, where they found Harry sitting on the couch with her father, staring glumly at the television. There were dark circles beneath her swollen eyes, and the skin around her pinched mouth looked greenish. She didn't look well. There was no question in John's mind whether Harry was hitting the bottle again, only how bad it was this time. Had she been kicked out of her job and her small flat, or had she left of her own accord because something hadn't suited her? It wouldn't be the first time something like that had happened. Short tempers and impulsivity were characteristics that both siblings shared. But this clearly wasn't the right time to bring it up with her. John's mother was just coming out of the kitchen, carrying dishes and silverware to set the table with.

John watched, nonplussed, as Sherlock went over and started to help her.

"You needn't do that, dear," Lorraine scolded him. "You're the guest."

"I know," Sherlock said and followed her into the kitchen to get the food. "But I'd like to."

"Such a good little omega," Harry hissed at John as they sat down at the table together.

"At least he's got manners – unlike you," George growled, to John's surprise. The father glared daggers at his daughter. "You're just as much a guest here as John and Sherlock. Start acting like it."

Sherlock came back into the living room with John's mother, both carrying plates of food. Sensing the tense mood, Sherlock gave John a questioning look. John tilted his head slightly toward his sister and rolled his eyes. Sherlock sighed and took the seat beside him, then handed him the mashed potatoes.

"Here, made just the way you like."

"How do you know that?" John asked, amused.

"Your father told me. There's a photo of you covered from head to toe in mashed potato. Your third birthday, I believe?"

"God, yes! I'd completely forgotten that. Do I want to know what other embarrassing facts you've discovered about me?"

"As if you needed to worry about that kind of thing," Harry sneered, scowling as she scooped a helping of peas onto her plate. "You were always the model son, weren't you? Mr Perfect, Dr Watson, soldier, alpha. Enough to make anyone sick!"

"Harriet!"

"Well, it's true, Mum. He can do no wrong, and was always your sonny boy. And now he just breezes in with this rich, pretty, picture-perfect omega. But it's all just for show, isn't it, Johnny?" Harry's hand shook as she picked up her glass filled with cheap red wine, saluted John with it like an accusation, and drained it in a single gulp.

"What's she talking about, John?" Sherlock asked warily.

"What do you think, omega?" Harry goaded him, her voice dripping with scorn, before John could react. This was the first time she had addressed Sherlock directly.

"I'm talking about the fact that my dear old brother apparently can't get your motor running hot enough. The fact that you're not having any heats, meaning the two of you can't indulge your perverse biological urges. Shame, that, eh?"

Sherlock dropped his silverware onto his plate with a clatter and laid his serviette down beside it.

"Excuse me, please."

The screech of his chair rang painfully in John's ears as he pushed it back to stand up. John made haste to stand as well, reaching for Sherlock's arm. "Sherl—" But Sherlock had already turned around, and left the room with his head held high.

John resisted the urge to immediately run after him, instead directing his attention to his sister. Anger made the vein in his temple throb painfully. His blood was rushing through his veins much too fast. If he weren't at his parents' house, and if the target of his fury weren't his own flesh and blood, John would have lost it and grabbed the beta who dared to speak to his omega like that by the throat, and tossed her against the nearest wall. Instead, he slammed his fist into the table so hard that the dishes and glassware wobbled dangerously, and glared at Harry with more severity than he ever had before.

"Sherlock is the best and smartest person I've ever met. Every day I have the privilege to spend with him is like a minor miracle, because I can't believe that this man has chosen me. That he picked me to be his alpha, and that I have the honour to share my life with him. Sherlock isn't just my omega, he's the love of my life, and you, Harry, have no clue what that means."

John took a deep, staggering breath, and continued gruffly, "Beyond that, you haven't the faintest idea what it means to be an alpha. Or an omega. Good God, you don't even know any other omegas. So don't you dare ever speak that way to Sherlock or me again, or it will be the last time we see each other. And stop trying to place the blame on me for your life going down the shitter. You have no one to blame but yourself."

With those words, John grabbed his sister's empty wine glass. He was barely able to rein in the impulse to throw it against the wall. Instead, he set it down firmly in front of his parents as a silent witness to the fact that they not only tolerated Harry's alcohol consumption, but encouraged it through their wilful ignorance. The sense of gratification he hoped to achieve remained elusive, however, as he saw not only Harry's dark blue eyes fill with tears, but his mother's as well. Sighing, he turned to Lorraine, pressed a kiss onto the side of her head, and whispered an apology into her grey-blonde hair.

"I'm sorry, Mum. The two of you need to finally face up to the fact that it can't go on like this. Thank you for the meal, but I need to go to Sherlock now."

*

John hurried up the well-worn stairs to the first floor. The old carpet was still the same one his grandfather had laid when he'd bought the cottage back in his day. Even if the pine green had faded almost completely and there were numerous spots where the fibres were threadbare or stained.

John came to a halt outside of his childhood bedroom and knocked gingerly on the door.

"Come in, John," came a weary voice from inside the room.

John cautiously pushed the door open, then stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame. Despite the current unfortunate situation, John couldn't help wanting to feast his eyes on the surreal sight before him. Sherlock lay on John's old bed, barefoot and with his legs angled up at the knees, his head resting against the headboard as he scrolled through his phone with a longsuffering look on his face.

John's bed, his room – his refuge where he'd spent so much of his time. And now his omega was here, to all appearances completely out of place and yet strangely right at home. Sherlock's scent combined with the ambient smell of the room, making John's space into theirs. John's nose immediately picked up the obvious stress which his omega was under at the moment.

He sighed and pushed away from the door frame, closed the door behind him, and moved further into the room. He knelt down beside the bed so that he was at eye level with Sherlock. Draping one arm over Sherlock's abdomen, he rested his head on Sherlock's chest. He closed his eyes and focused on Sherlock's breathing so that he could adjust his rhythm to match. The sense of relief that came over him worked to slow down his own frantic heartbeat as Sherlock set aside his phone, buried one hand in John's hair, and gently massaged small circles into his scalp.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart."

"I know, John. But I don't understand how she found out about the heats."

John tightened his grip on Sherlock and burrowed his nose deeper into the posh fabric of his shirt. All he wanted was to open the placket so he could nestle directly into his omega's soft skin.

"That was my fault. I was talking to my mother about it when Harry came in."

"Why?" Sherlock asked pointedly and sat up, forcing John to relinquish his comfy position. Instead, he found himself in the crosshairs of his omega's laser-sharp gaze.

"She could tell something was wrong, and hit the nail on the head with her suppositions. I think that's just how mothers are, you know?"

"No, how should I?" Sherlock said, the bitterness in his tone unmistakable.

Immediately, the image came to John's mind of a small, helpless child standing by its parents' grave.

"Oh, Sherlock. I'm so sorry. I seem to be putting one foot in my mouth after the other. And I wanted this to be such a nice visit for us."

John sighed as he slid down onto the guest mattress on the floor, and sat on it cross-legged. He picked up the small pillow which lay there and started punching it absentmindedly. Since Harry was occupying her old room which had been converted into a guest room after she'd moved out, John and Sherlock were left with his old room. His old bed being too small for two grown men, however, his parents had set up a second sleeping area on the floor. It reminded John of all the sleepovers that had taken place in his childhood.

"I didn't intend to speak with my mother about it, or anyone else for that matter. I'm sorry if I've embarrassed you."

Sherlock made a vague sound and scooted back down onto his back. After stewing silently for a few seconds, he rolled onto his side so that he could see John.

"What did your mother say?"

John shrugged and gave the pillow one last punch before tossing it back down onto the mattress. "Same thing as Mike and all the literature. That we should take our time and not get all worked up trying to fix it. That we should let the heat come naturally."

"And Harry?" Sherlock asked.

"Doesn't matter. Harry's a jealous bitch, that's all."

John got up from his Spartan encampment, frustrated. He didn't intend to go back downstairs any time tonight, so he might as well get ready for bed. He slipped off his jumper and jeans and dug around in his travel bag for the smaller pouch containing his toiletries. He steadfastly ignored the rustling of the bedsheets as Sherlock got up as well.

A fine-boned hand grasped him and pulled him up against a bony chest. "What did she say?"

"You smell so good..." John sighed and twisted around within the embrace so that he could nudge his nose into the crook of Sherlock's neck and drop a butterfly kiss there.

Sherlock smirked as he pushed John away far enough that he could look him in the eye.

"John..."

"All right! If you insist on knowing..." John pulled away from Sherlock with more force than intended. He clenched his hands into fists and stomped across the room, coming to a halt in front of the window. He rested his forehead against the cool glass and looked down at the familiar street from his childhood. "Mostly the same old vitriol she was just spitting downstairs. That I'm not man enough to get your hormones going. Because I don't act like a real alpha and let you carry your own bags; because I do the dishes. Things like that."

John might have expected several different reactions, but least of all the hearty outburst of laughter that erupted from Sherlock. John turned around, nonplussed, to look at his omega. He was standing in the middle of the room, shaking his head at John.

"You don't believe that piffle, do you?"

John shrugged and leaned back against the window frame, folding his arms across his chest.

"I don't know if I find any of this funny, Sherlock. What if she's right? Remember that your first heat started after we'd had that big row, and I... I grabbed you... Maybe it all comes down to biology in the end, and I'm just too much of a wet rag for you?"

"Oh, John..." Sherlock covered the distance between them in two long strides, and drew him into his arms again. "Knock those ridiculous notions out of your head. That first heat had already announced itself several days before our argument escalated. Why do you think I was being so insufferable? I had no idea what was wrong with me, and… no, strike that. I knew precisely what was going on, and I wanted to drive you away. The rough handling didn't trigger the heat, it was simply the final drop which—"

"—made you overflow?"

John giggled over his own joke into Sherlock's sternum until he also began to laugh, and finally pressed a kiss onto John's head.

"That was terrible. Awful."

"I know," John grunted and lifted his face so that he could look at Sherlock. "I just feel so helpless and don't want to leave any stone unturned, you know?"

"Of course I understand. But I can promise you it's not your fault. You should know better than anyone that I don't want some simian for a partner, driven purely by instinct. Someone who just takes whatever he thinks he has a right to. No, John. It has nothing to do with your alphahood or you not arousing me enough. Because you do. You know I want you. Constantly."

At the last word, Sherlock's voice dropped an octave. One hand extracted itself from the embrace and slowly made its way down John's back to his arse. John gasped with surprise when fingers dug into his flesh and Sherlock scattered gentle kisses across his collarbone.

"I don't even want to know how many betas you seduced in this room. How many first times happened here. How many kisses and fumblings. How many climaxes. Who writhed underneath you. Who moaned your name. How many hearts you broke..."

"Oh, God..."

The back of John's head hit the wooden window frame with a painful thunk when Sherlock sank to his knees before him and unceremoniously yanked down his underpants. John's cock was still only half-hard, such that Sherlock was able to fit two-thirds of it into his mouth before it hit the back of his throat.

"Fuck... Sher... _hgnn_..."

It only took a few seconds before Sherlock was no longer able to perform that trick, and John felt faintly dizzy as all of the blood drained from his head and flooded his cock within a matter of seconds. Sherlock pulled back, purring smugly, and dragged his tongue across John's frenulum to the tiny slit at the tip of the head. He blinked up at John and gave him a lascivious smile, knowing full well what effect such a sensual sight would have on him.

"It doesn't matter who else you had in here, John," the omega whispered between two laps of his tongue, "because I'm the only one who will ever make you moan again. And you're the only one who has ever got my engine humming... Now watch this..."

John reluctantly diverted his gaze from the pink mouth and agile tongue dancing around his plump cockhead, and directed it further down, to where Sherlock had opened his trousers and was now holding his stiff omega penis in one hand, slowly caressing it from top to bottom.

The next few minutes passed in a heady whirlwind of physical and visual stimuli, accompanied by the fear that the door could be opened any minute and his parents might enter the room.

John felt like he was fifteen again. The only difference was that his breathtaking omega was spoiling him with his talented mouth, frantically chasing his own climax at the same time, rather than one of his crushes practising their awkward first attempts on him.

The combination of adrenaline and sheer lust catapulted John to the edge of orgasm so quickly that he grabbed a handful of Sherlock's curls to steady himself, performed a couple of perfunctory hip thrusts, and bit down on the heel of his right hand to muffle a loud shout as he spurted down Sherlock's willing throat. Beneath him, Sherlock let out a series of jittery whimpers and ejaculated onto John's bare shin as he came.

Together, they sank to the floor and rolled onto the temporary sleeping area.

"You're completely bonkers, did you know that?" John panted, still out of breath from the sheer force of his climax.

"I know," Sherlock grinned as he settled his head smugly on John's chest. "But that's what you love about me... plus I had to mark my territory."

John shook his head, chuckling. "Too bad we can't repeat that performance in your old room. I don't think Mycroft would be very happy about that, would he?"

"Probably not." Sherlock laughed too. "Siblings – they're the worst."

John blinked up at the ceiling as he contemplated. He slid one arm up underneath his head while holding Sherlock close against his side with the other. He gently combed through the soft curls at the back of Sherlock's neck and listened to the sound of their hearts beating together.

"At least Mycroft understands how we feel. I don't think Harry's ever even met another omega. I can't for the life of me understand where her hard feelings come from."

Sherlock made an inquisitive sound and propped himself up on one arm so that he could look at John. "But she did know an omega."

John furrowed his brow, perplexed. "No idea who you mean."

"Your father told me about it this afternoon when we were looking through those old photo albums. Carla something or other."

"Doesn't sound familiar," John said as he combed through his memories.

"Seems she was a neighbour's granddaughter."

Images from days long past rose to the surface of John's memory. Summer days in the neighbours' gardens. Lemonade, ice cream and swings. Football matches and skinned knees. Riding bikes without seats. A girl with tousled red curls and matching sandals. A lemon yellow mini-dress and his sister's laugh like the tinkling of bells.

_Come on, Clara, let the boys play by themselves. They're all just babies anyway._

"Clara! She was Mrs Jenkins's granddaughter. She always spent her holidays here. Harry was obsessed with her until one summer she stopped coming. No idea what happened to her."

"Your father said she presented as an omega and was promptly shipped off to boarding school. That's fairly typical. We omegas don't generally maintain friendships. It must have broken your sister's heart."

"Fuck, I had no idea. Why didn't she ever tell me about that?"

"Probably because you're an alpha?" Sherlock replied gently.

"Maybe," John agreed. "But as tragic as it is, that doesn't give her the right to treat you and me with such disdain."

Sherlock made an affirmative sound and clambered to his feet. He casually stepped out of his clothes, pulled on a pair of pyjama trousers, and held one hand out to John.

"You're right. A tragic back story is no excuse for acting like such an arse. Let's face it, both of our siblings are arses. Being an alpha or beta has nothing to do with it. They'd probably get on like a house on fire. Now come here. I'd like to spend the night with John Watson in his old bed."

John smirked and let Sherlock pull him to his feet. He stretched and yawned, then grabbed his toilet bag and headed for the door to go to the bathroom.

"As seductive as the notion is, that bed is much too narrow for the two of us. We'd only manage one night before every bone in our bodies was aching."

"Worth it," Sherlock replied impishly, and followed John to the bathroom.

+++

tbc


	32. Chapter 32

Contrary to expectations, Sherlock didn't awaken to find himself in John's childhood bed the next morning, but on the temporary mattress which John's parents had wrangled into the small room in order to provide both men with a place to sleep. He had a vague recollection of crawling down to join John in the middle of the night and snuggling up tight against his alpha. There was no other way for the two to have enough space on the narrow mattress. Sherlock yawned and dragged himself up onto the bed, then gazed down at his alpha. Sunlight fell through the gaps in the blinds, conjuring strands of gold into John's hair.

As for the alpha himself, he lay on his stomach, his breathing deep and even, still lost in the land of Nod.

A glance at Sherlock's phone screen revealed that it was shortly before eight. He wasn't particularly surprised by the fact that he had awoken so early, despite it being contrary to his usual habit; after all, they had gone up to the room during dinner already in order to escape Harry's vitriol. Sherlock sighed softly at the thought of being confronted with John's sister again today. Maybe this holiday hadn't been such a brilliant idea after all.

Certain that John would wake up soon as well, Sherlock grabbed his toilet bag and a fresh pair of pants, made his way quietly over to the bathroom, and got into the shower. After shaving and cleaning his teeth, he returned to John's room.

John had rolled onto his back and was rubbing his sleep-crusted eyes.

"Good morning," Sherlock said as he hung the towel he'd been drying his hair with over the back of the desk chair. He picked up his overnight bag, took out a clean pair of trousers, a shirt, and socks, and got dressed.

"What time is it?" John mumbled unintelligibly.

"Almost half nine."

John grunted his understanding and stretched out his left arm toward Sherlock, as if inviting him to return to bed. But Sherlock shook his head, smiling mischievously.

"No way. You were right, unfortunately: everything's sore, and the thought of spending another night in that sad excuse for a bed is giving me the shivers. We should find a hotel... if you want to stay here longer, that is."

"You don't want to, do you?" John said. He propped himself up on one elbow and yawned broadly. Over the past few weeks, he'd become much more attentive to the subtle, often unintentional signals which Sherlock broadcasted.

Sherlock stuffed his shirt into his trousers, buckled his narrow leather belt, and emitted a low sigh. "That's up to you, John. I'm not going to ask you to turn your back on your parents. Not since you haven't seen them for so long. I'll deal with Harry, but it would be better for both of us if we aren't forced to spend time under the same roof with her – and the way things look, we're the ones who are more flexible where that's concerned."

John flopped back down onto the pillow and scrubbed his sleepy face with both hands. "You're right. But it feels disingenuous to turn down their hospitality..."

"Don't be ridiculous. They're adults and I'm sure they'll understand our situation, especially after last night. It will be more pleasant for them as well if we're well rested and relaxed," Sherlock said, just as his stomach made its presence known with a growl. He hadn't eaten anything since their hasty departure from dinner, and the thought of a long, lazy breakfast made his mouth water.

"Hungry? Wait a mo', I'll just get dressed and then we can see if we can rustle something up."

Sherlock lifted his head a bit and inhaled. "I believe your mother has already taken the initiative on that. I smell pancakes!"

John shook his head in disbelief. "I'm continually fascinated by how much more sensitive your nose is than mine. Oh there, now I smell it too."

"It's the hunger," Sherlock replied, his cheeks flushing.

"Go on ahead, I'll be right there," John said, laughing.

Sherlock didn't need to be told twice. He went out and followed his nose into the kitchen. There, he found Lorraine Watson flipping an oversized pancake in a cast-iron frying pan. It landed on its still semi-liquid side with a plop, and promptly began to sizzle. The aroma of hot butter, fried dough, and vanilla beckoned Sherlock closer to the stove.

"Good morning, Lorraine," he said. He had no intention of startling the woman as she worked, but she let out a surprised squeal and grabbed at her heart with her free hand.

"Sherlock! Good morning. I didn't know you two were up yet."

"Not for long," Sherlock replied, only now noticing the plate next to the stove with a finished pancake on it. "May I?"

"Oh, that's the first one. Those never turn out. Just wait a moment, all right? The next one's for you. You can pour some coffee for yourself and John already if you'd like. Milk's in the fridge."

Sherlock nodded and swallowed down the excess saliva in his mouth. His stomach growled indignantly. He took two cups out of the cupboard over the coffee machine – Lorraine didn't even need to tell him where they were – and filled them. Just as he was about to pour the coffee into the second cup, something occurred to him.

"Is it all right if I make some tea? John prefers it over coffee for breakfast."

"Yes, of course. Help yourself. I didn't even think of that."

In short order, Sherlock had filled the kettle, plugged it in, and turned it on. The teabags were in the same cupboard where the coffee was kept. He dropped a bag into the empty cup and waited for the water to boil as he watched Lorraine ladle the next dollop of batter into the frying pan.

She handed Sherlock the plate with the next pancake and watched as he rolled it up and wolfed it down in a couple of bites.

"You certainly have a healthy appetite," she said with a broad smile.

Sherlock averted his gaze when he felt the heat rise to his cheeks again. "Not usually, but today I do... Can I make the next one?"

Lorraine nodded, still smiling, and flipped the pancake in the pan. "If you'd like... Hold on, this one is just about ready."

The kettle turned off with a click, and Sherlock filled John's cup. Meanwhile, Lorraine slid the pancake onto his now empty plate and put it into the oven to keep it warm. She dropped a pat of butter into the pan, where it melted with a hiss. She then took another plate out of the cupboard and set it down next to the stove before stepping aside so that Sherlock could take over.

He scooped the liquid batter out of the nearby plastic bowl and into the pan, which he tilted back and forth a little to distribute it evenly, then kept an eye on it as the mixture slowly solidified. He felt a bit smug when he heard Lorraine inhale sharply with surprise when he reached unerringly into the spice rack and sprinkled a generous portion of cinnamon onto the pancake.

"John generally prefers a savoury breakfast, but he can't resist baked goods with cinnamon in them. Or blueberries. But they're not in season right now," he explained, and flipped the pancake with a deft twist of his wrist.

"Oh," Lorraine said with a sheepish smile. "I shouldn't be surprised that you know his preferences so well. After all, you're his omega."

Sherlock drew his brows together and gave John's mother a sidelong glance. He felt the way her comment rubbed something in him the wrong way. But before the feeling could turn into anger, he told himself to get a grip. Lorraine certainly didn't intend to reduce him to his omegahood; she merely wanted to express that John and Sherlock were happy together – and they were.

He returned his attention to the pan and took the pancake out before it became too dark. Then he let the teabag drip off and tossed it into the bin. The plate and cup were placed on the table.

"Yes, I am," he said absently.

"Good morning, Mum." John came into the kitchen and gave his mother a quick smile, only to promptly turn to Sherlock and wrap an arm around his hip. He pulled him close and dropped a kiss on his cheek. "Thanks," he whispered and nodded toward the breakfast. "Just the way I like it."

Sherlock beamed. John had apparently heard more of their kitchen conversation than intended, but that didn't matter. Their feelings for each other were no secret anymore.

*

Harry didn't show her face that morning, and it didn't take a Sherlock Holmes to deduce that she was sleeping off her hangover.

During breakfast, John proposed to his parents that they find a hotel given the less than ideal situation, what with Harry and the small bed. As expected, Lorraine and George reacted with understanding, even if it was clear from their expressions that they would have liked to make the most of the time they had to spend with their long-absent son. But in the end they preferred to see John and Sherlock for a shorter, but more relaxed time.

And so it happened that Sherlock and John, after a morning filled with many more tales from John's past and a lunch with all the trimmings, set out in the afternoon for a walk to try and find a place to stay for the night. They soon found a quaint hotel filled with rustic charm that happened to have a room free, and promptly booked it for the next three nights. They wouldn't be able to put up with West Bromwich any longer than that anyway, in John's opinion.

On the way back to John's parents' house, they strolled once more through the lanes of John's childhood. He spoke of how strange it had been, coming from a neighbourhood whose residents were nearly all betas, to join the army where there were far more alphas than betas; how great the culture shock had been, in hindsight; how he'd had to learn bit by bit how to act and think like an alpha, given his lack of any role models; and even so, how he'd never quite felt confident he would pass as one. In the army, the associations amongst alphas were much rougher than at school, and followed a stricter hierarchy, and that had left its mark on John.

"I'm glad you grew up alongside betas," Sherlock remarked at some point. "I think it made you more sensitive and insightful. Especially when it comes to the needs of others. Perhaps that's what drew me to you at first."

"At first?" John teased. "I got the distinct impression you didn't want to have anything to do with me after we'd bonded."

"That's true. I didn't want to have anything to do with alphas at all... and yet you made an impression on me that wasn't all bad. It was... singular. And I'm quite happy that everything turned out all right." Sherlock grasped John's hand and wove their fingers together.

"Me too. You've no idea how much."

They were already on the way back to John's parents, where they were planning to have dinner and pick up their bags, when Sherlock noticed Harry's car parked in the vicinity of the neighbourhood pub. Clearly the siren song of her preferred poison was louder than he'd initially thought. Sherlock had already deduced some time ago that was the reason she'd lost her job and drunk herself into financial ruin. But it was another story altogether to have the confirmation that she was drinking every afternoon until she dragged herself home with the last of her strength and fell into a comatose slumber.

She was definitely on a downward spiral, and was going to drag her helpless parents down with her into the abyss if nothing were done. Because who was paying for her daily stupor, if not them?

"John?"

"Hm?"

"Harry's at the pub again. I'd like to speak with her. Would you wait for me? I won't be long."

"What? But... hold on, I should come with you."

"No, it's best if you don't. She doesn't hold you in the highest regard at the moment."

John huffed with annoyance. "She never has. And she'll just start picking at you again anyway."

"Don't worry, I know how to defend myself," Sherlock said with a smile, but when he saw the way the corners of John's mouth turned downward and his forehead developed dubious lines, he added, "I'll behave myself – I promise."

Although John appeared to be anything but convinced, Sherlock left his alpha standing there and crossed the street. When he pulled open the pub door and entered the gloomy dive, the smell of stale beer, fryer grease, and sweat slammed into him. His eyes grazed across the scattered patrons until they alit on Harry sitting in a booth in the back part of the room. A half-empty pint glass stood on the table in front of her, but Sherlock doubted very much that it was her first. Her head drooped forward, and she was scribbling moodily on a piece of paper.

The first thing Sherlock noticed was that Harry was also left-handed, just like John. The similarity in their facial features and hair colour was extraordinary, so much so that they could easily have been taken for twins, had they not been several years apart. Perhaps it was precisely that similarity that prompted Sherlock to want to get on her good side.

It probably wasn't even necessary: the fact that John didn't feel any particular need to pay frequent visits to his nuclear family meant that Sherlock was largely absolved of the same responsibility. However, it was a different matter where Lorraine and George were concerned. After all, they weren't going to live forever, and Sherlock didn't want John to regret not having spent more time with them once they passed. And if Harry was going to be present on those occasions, they'd simply have to get used to it.

Sherlock squared his shoulders and approached the booth. Without so much as acknowledging Harry or asking whether he might have a seat, he slid onto the upholstered bench across from her and folded his hands on the tabletop. His eyes swept over the piece of paper and the relatively skilful yet anatomically incorrect sketches she had immortalised there. They were mostly faces, eyes and mouths that had the air of detached components of a Cubist mosaic.

Harry only glanced up briefly, snorted impetuously, and flipped over the sheet with a loud slap.

"What do you want?!" She looked around, apparently expecting to see John. "Are you even allowed to enter a pub without your alpha?"

"It must have been difficult to lose your best friend like that. A person you cared for. To know that you never had a chance, simply because you were born with the wrong gender." Sherlock's tone was gentle, but it was apparent that Harry didn't hear the empathy in the words; instead, she took it as an affront. She curled her lips and folded her arms across her chest. A deep line formed between her eyebrows, crinkling her brow.

"What do _you_ know? Have you ever thought about what a beta might feel? That we're just people who want to be loved too?" she barked angrily.

Sherlock didn't need to think long before responding. "Honestly? No, I haven't. Beta emotions were never anything I spent a great deal of time pondering."

He thought of Molly Hooper, the young pathologist at St Bartholomew's Hospital, and the way she'd always watched him when she thought he wasn't looking. Sherlock had always attributed her obvious interest to the fact that he was an omega, assuming that she was fascinated by his unusual lifestyle. But would he have thought the same thing if she'd been an alpha?

No, of course not. That train of thought wouldn't have made any sense; after all, they would have been able to identify each other by scent alone before exchanging a single word with each other, and adjusted their behaviour accordingly, as was standard practice between alphas and omegas. Instead, there had simply been a... kind of light in her eyes. Consistently unabashed and adoring. Almost the way John often looked at him. And that wasn't purely scientific interest, that was a quite different type of emotion.

Why hadn't he realised it earlier?

Harry snorted derisively and rubbed her bloodshot eyes with her thumb and index finger. "Yeah. That's what I thought."

"No, please don't misunderstand me. I see things differently now. Since John entered my life, I've had to rethink my convictions, and in doing so, I've discovered that many of my original presumptions were rooted in prejudice. But prejudices aren't immutable; they can be changed. You may think that John and I are typical examples of our respective genders, but we aren't – and it's precisely for that reason that we work well together."

Harry shook her head in disbelief. "You're crazier than I thought if you think any one alpha can be different than all the rest. Sooner or later, his instincts will kick in and then you won't have any power at your disposal to escape him. That's... just in his DNA," Harry said. Her eyes went out of focus somewhere between them, and Sherlock had the vague sense that she wasn't talking about John anymore. What had really happened with Carla... no, Clara?

"I know that John is different – and you're part of the reason why he didn't turn out to be a typical alpha. The positive influence from you, Lorraine, and George is deeply anchored within him, and... and now I'm part of your family, and I hope we can learn from each other." Oh no, why had he said that? Harry didn't look as if she were enamoured of that idea in the least. Was she really only just now realising there was an omega in her family?

She slammed her fist down fiercely on the table and glared at Sherlock, her eyes flashing with ire. "There is nothing – _nothing_ – that I want to learn from you, omega! You're nothing but a slave to your instincts, and God knows I have better things to do than spend the whole day wondering where I can find another cock to fuck me! Let me make one thing clear..." she said grimly, as she rose from her seat with a threatening air. "You have no idea what it means to be ignored and pushed around your whole life as if you were nothing more than a soulless puppet!"

"Oy!" came a shout from the front end of the pub. The publican had stepped out from behind his bar and now stood there with his fists propped on his hips. "That's enough, Watson! You've had your fill. Gerrout!"

Harry shoved her way out of the booth, grinding her teeth. Before she headed for the exit, however, she whirled around one last time and extended a threatening finger in Sherlock's direction. "You're not part of my family. You're a pretty little sex toy for my snotty brother, that's all! Sooner or later even you are going to realise that." She hesitated for a moment, as if she wanted to say something else.

Sherlock realised what was about to happen before Harry had even consciously decided on the action, but he was powerless to prevent it. Moving much too fast, Harry picked up her pint glass and tossed the remaining contents in Sherlock's face. He flinched with shock. Beer dribbled through his hair, soaked into his shirt, ran down his cheeks, and dripped into his lap. He was too surprised to be angry, but felt shame and disgust burbling in his stomach and slowly making his blood boil.

Harry did an about-face, flung open the pub door, and beat a hasty retreat.

"Shit... you okay, buddy?" the landlord asked. He had come over and now stood helplessly next to the booth, twisting a tea towel in his hands, although he didn't offer it to Sherlock to dry off. It would have been a useless endeavour anyway.

"Yes," Sherlock said curtly, and pushed himself up from the seat. He wiped his wet curls out of his face, squared his shoulders, and exited the pub with his head held high.

John was waiting outside for him. His eyes widened in shock when he saw Sherlock. "What the hell–?! Did Harry do that?" His expression promptly darkened and anger furrowed his brow.

"It's all right, doesn't matter." It was clear that John didn't buy the lie, but it was hard enough to remain calm and not blow his top. "Although I don't much feel like going to your parents' right now," he added.

"No, of course not. Let's head back to the hotel."

They tried to hail a taxi, but as soon as the driver took note of Sherlock's appearance and the pungent smell of beer, he refused to pick them up. Thus forced to return to the hotel on foot, Sherlock related what had occurred in the pub in a series of curt, unemotional statements.

John apologised repeatedly for his sister, whenever he wasn't in the midst of cursing her and squeezing his hands into furious fists.

"Who does she think she is that she can treat you like that? I just don't get it!" John cried when they finally arrived at the hotel, quickly darted past the reception desk, and went up to their room.

Sherlock immediately peeled off his soaked clothing. His coat and shirt had taken the brunt of it, but his trousers hadn't been spared either. As he made a beeline for the small bathroom, he heard John following close behind him, still complaining about his sister's behaviour. Sherlock stopped in the doorway to the bathroom and turned to face his alpha.

"I'd like to be alone for a bit, if you don't mind," he said, and closed the door behind him.

*

Sherlock felt much better once he'd showered and put on clean clothes.

John had wrapped up the soiled items in a plastic bag and brought them to an express cleaning service, where they would be ready to pick up in the morning. He intended to send the bill to Harry – that was the least she could do to make amends, he said when he returned.

"It will just end up being paid by your parents," Sherlock said absently as he scrolled through his phone.

"No, no way. They wouldn't let Harry get away with something like that."

Sherlock blinked at him in surprise. "You do realise that Harry doesn't have two farthings to rub together, don't you?"

"She's between jobs at the moment, but that doesn't mean she doesn't have any assets left," John asserted.

Sherlock gave a sigh of annoyance. "It's fairly obvious that she's in no state to be taking on employment. No one would hire a heavy drinker with anger management issues who's currently waging a personal crusade against two-thirds of the human race! No, instead she's hunkered down at your parents' because that's the only place where she can finally get all the attention she was denied for so long."

"Who's supposed to have denied her their attention? She demanded it constantly!" John cried, aghast.

"In her eyes, you were always the one who got all the attention – based solely on your gender, it should be noted. The only alpha in the family. The precious son who was welcomed by society with open arms, no matter what path he chose. Someone to whom doors opened without ever having to prove himself. Not even your parents' precarious financial situation could change that. And Harry had to sit by and watch you get everything that was denied her as a beta. She had to watch as her best friend was excised from her life due to her gender so that she could be handed off to an alpha like you at the earliest opportunity. Don't you think all of that leaves a mark?"

"And why is that my fault? How can I help being born the way I was? When have I ever said the world is fair?"

"No one's saying it's your fault, John. But you must admit all of that does have to do with you. Hell, don't you see that she's suffering? She comes home to your parents with her tail between her legs, only to discover that _her_ room has been transformed into a guest room, not yours. Yours hasn't changed one whit since you moved out. What happened to all of her childhood mementos? Packed up and locked in the cellar? Or were they taken directly to the dump?"

"I don't know... I..."

"And now your parents are financing Harry's war with herself and making everything worse in doing so!"

"What the hell are you talking about?" John demanded.

"Damn it, you see but you don't observe! Harry has huge debts, and your parents aren't free and clear either. Your mother's a housewife with no income. Your father's been unfit for work for months due to his back. They inherited the house from your grandfather, but the cost of upkeep is eating them out of house and home. They've sold or hocked more than a few things to make ends meet – especially now that they have a third mouth to feed. But it's not even close to being enough."

"Fuck..." All of the energy drained out of John. His shoulders slumped, and he sank down on the foot of the bed and buried his face in his hands. "I had no idea it was so bad."

Sherlock sat down next to him and sighed as he wrapped one arm around his hip. "They never asked you for help, did they?"

"No, never."

Uncertain how they should proceed, Sherlock leaned his head against John's and rubbed his face into John's short hair. "We'll find a way..."

Lorraine rang a short time later to ask where John and Sherlock were. Apparently Harry wasn't back yet, so their parents had no idea about her confrontation with Sherlock. John decided not to discuss what had happened over the phone, which would only dredge up a boatload of things they had no solution for at the moment anyway. Instead, he apologised to his mother and said he had an upset stomach and preferred to remain at the hotel.

Sherlock listened to the conversation but didn't contribute anything. He understood all too well that John needed to let the facts sink in first and look for a way to help Harry and his parents. John and Sherlock didn't have enough saved up themselves to simply cover the debts and grant John's family a fresh start. Sherlock's wealth was limited to a monthly payment which Mycroft had set up after their parents' death. At any rate, it was clear to both of them that any financial assistance would pose nothing more than a short-term solution, and that they needed to get at the root of the problem.

While John chatted a bit more with his mother, Sherlock called up the browser app on his phone and clicked his way through a series of websites to gather information on alcohol dependency and different therapy options. As expected, the general consensus of the articles and forum posts was that the addict needed to possess a certain amount of self-awareness and be willing to start therapy in order to overcome the addiction. The rate of relapse was relatively high to begin with, but particularly amongst those who weren't prepared to make fundamental changes in their life.

Sherlock was well acquainted with the problem. He still had vivid memories of how far he'd gone to get his hands on his next dose, and how much he'd debased himself to maintain the status quo. Wiggin's face leapt to the forefront of his mind, making him shudder.

"Everything all right?" John inquired as soon as he'd hung up, noticing Sherlock's shiver.

"Yes, I'm just... cold," Sherlock lied. He'd never told John what had happened with Wiggins, and the thought of revealing the deepest, darkest episode in his past to John made goosebumps run down his spine.

John laid one hand on Sherlock's shoulder and gave it an affectionate squeeze. "Why don't you dry your hair, and we'll go grab a bite somewhere nearby?"

Sherlock grasped John's hand and pressed a kiss onto his palm. "All right... Maybe we'll come up with something then."

*

Once Sherlock had finished blow-drying his hair, they took a stroll through the local streets. Sherlock didn't much care where they ate, but John seemed to have some vague idea where he wanted to go, so Sherlock let him take the lead. He'd lost his appetite anyway, and he couldn't promise he'd be able to get much down.

John directed them toward a little fish-and-chip shop near the train station that wasn't very full, both due to the early evening hour and the many other eateries in the area.

"Is this all right?" he asked with a glance at his omega.

Sherlock nodded. "You used to come here a lot, didn't you?"

"After school sometimes. I always liked their chips. Soul food," John said with a wistful smile.

Sherlock placed one hand lightly on the small of his back and nudged him toward the glazed door. After ordering their food, they sat down with their drinks at the counter in front of the window while they waited. Sherlock immediately noticed the way that John was bouncing his left leg nervously as he watched the people passing by outside. He slipped one hand onto John's thigh and tried to gently dampen the motion. John gave him a sheepish smile.

When their number was called, Sherlock got up. "Don't worry, I've got it," he said and went to the front to pick up their tray. As he headed back, he saw that John had started bouncing his leg again. Sighing, he crossed the room, placed the tray on the wooden countertop, and sat down again.

Sherlock picked up a fried potato wedge and took a bite. "These are delicious!" he exclaimed even before his taste buds had registered the flavour, just to fill the silence and break John out of his reverie.

"I don't know what to do, Sherlock," John said softly, ignoring Sherlock's statement.

Sherlock wiped his greasy fingers off on a paper serviette and turned to face John. "I think it's important for Harry to get into a treatment programme. But that won't be easy as long as she doesn't think she needs help. I'm afraid she's not at that point yet. As for your parents... Maybe your mother can work a couple of hours a week until your father's fit again. And maybe you can help find a good doctor who can actually help him."

"You've no idea how stubborn he can be. I didn't even know he was having back trouble! Why would he keep that secret from me of all people–"

"He's proud. Just like you. He probably didn't want to accept that he has a weakness, and admit that he's not able to care for his family without help. Especially in front of his son, who returned from war with a serious injury and picked right up again despite all of the obstacles in his way – and who now has a well-paid position as a doctor," Sherlock explained.

John looked at Sherlock and sighed wearily. "I could have helped them."

"Shame can induce people to do stupid things even when they know better. We'll try to help them get back on their feet now. After all... after all, we're family."

John pulled Sherlock toward him as he leaned in to give him a hug and kiss him on the cheek. "I love you," he whispered.

Sherlock returned the embrace as best he could in their precarious position. His heart thudded hard in his chest. "Me too."

They shared the rest of the chips and the fried fish, finished their soft drinks, then walked back to the hotel. Just as they set foot inside the lobby, John's phone rang. He took it out of his jacket pocket and frowned in bewilderment.

"My mother," he told Sherlock, who had stopped a short distance away and was watching him closely. "Hallo?"

Sherlock immediately realised that something was wrong. John's eyes widened and all the colour drained from his face. Sherlock closed the distance between them, his eyes boring into John as if he could see inside his head and understand faster what had happened. John lowered the phone a few seconds later.

"Harry's in hospital. She... she's unconscious. Alcohol poisoning."

+++

tbc


	33. Chapter 33

John arrived at the hospital before his parents and rushed to the front desk at A&E. Sherlock hung back in the visitors' area to await John's parents and give John the privacy he needed with his sister.

John briskly pushed open the glass swinging door to the patient tract in the intensive care ward, where he was brought to Harry's room by a nurse. The woman murmured a few friendly words and patted John's arm with a soothing gesture before leaving him alone in front of the dull white door with blue trim. Paint was peeling off in places, allowing glimpses of the particle board beneath to show through. How many hospital beds had scraped past, how many life-and-death battles had been waged behind that door? But none of that mattered where the life of a loved one was concerned.

As a doctor and a soldier, John had seen many – too many – people die, yet nothing had prepared him for the panic he now felt constricting his airways. The frantic restlessness that had been making him vibrate with nervous energy a moment ago vanished into thin air. What remained was a paralysing fear that nailed him to the floor in front of Harry's sick room. He didn't want to face what waited for him behind the door: the fact that alcohol poisoning could end fatally, in the worst-case scenario, or at least leave permanent damage.

John took several deep breaths, trying to calm himself. He stopped his left hand from trembling by squeezing it into a fist so hard that his fingernails dug painfully into the meaty flesh of the heel of his hand. His right hand was also quivering like an elm in the breeze when he placed it on the door handle and pushed down.

He entered the room slowly, approaching the single bed standing by itself in the middle of the floor with caution. His sister's motionless figure lay beneath a light wool blanket. Pale, small, helpless. Tubes and cords snaked their way from various monitoring machines to Harry's body. She was hooked up to an IV, and had a nasal cannula in place delivering oxygen directly into her nose – the same nose which bore such a striking resemblance to John's. A circumstance which Harry had frequently complained long and hard about.

A hoarse laugh erupted from John's throat at the thought, only to end in a choked-off sob. Struggling to maintain control, he mechanically checked the vitals displayed on the screen of the heart monitor, along with the IV settings.

Ironically, this wasn't the first time he'd visited Harry in this very hospital. He must have been around five when she had her appendix out; her tonsils had been a year later. He had fragmentary memories of climbing onto his sister's hospital bed, in one hand his favourite teddy that he'd brought along to protect her.

John fancied his desire to become a doctor had manifested during that visit, when he'd crouched on Harry's bed, held her hand, and asked whether he could be a doctor too some day.

"You can become whatever you want, Johnny!"

Harry's words had been free of bitterness at the time, full of the sincere motivational enthusiasm of an older sister. How times had changed.

Frustrated, John rubbed his eyes and was surprised to discover that they were damp. He quickly wiped his face dry – just in time, as it turned out. His mother entered the room just then and threw her arms around his neck.

"Oh, John!" she sobbed into his shoulder.

John held his mother for several minutes until she'd collected herself enough that she no longer looked like she was on the verge of collapse.

"Where's Dad?" he asked, once he'd steered Lorraine to the visitor's chair next to Harry's bed.

She glanced at her daughter's fragile frame with a troubled expression.

"He's waiting outside with Sherlock. They said Harry can only have two visitors at a time."

John grunted his understanding and stepped up behind his mother. He placed his hands on her shoulders and squeezed them in what he hoped was an encouraging gesture.

"Have you been able to talk to anyone yet?"

Lorraine shook her head, twisting her fingers nervously in her lap.

"Right, I'll go have a look around for a doctor and send Dad in, yeah? We'll just hang out in the waiting area after that."

John brushed a tender kiss onto his mother's cheek and left the room.

*

Following a restless night in which John hadn't been able to fall asleep until Sherlock had drawn him in close and nestled John's head into the crook of his neck, both men awoke too early, feeling as if they'd been run over by a lorry. The strange bed with its sagging mattress had only added to John's bad mood, such that his anguished concern from the previous day slowly but surely progressed into anger.

Yesterday he'd been filled with self-reproach over Harry drinking too much after arguing with Sherlock and him; this morning, any such thoughts had vanished.

It wasn't his fault Harry was an alcoholic. It wasn't his fault that she'd drunk herself into a coma and nearly choked to death on her own vomit. It wasn't his fault that his sister couldn't get her life in order and blamed him for it. John wasn't responsible for any of it. Yet he still felt duty-bound to help her.

The sympathetic look Harry's consulting physician had given him the previous evening was still seared into his memory. As was the sombre tone in which Dr Hamid had recited Harry's diagnosis.

Harry's sister had been found early in the evening in a small park not far from the pub she'd stalked out of that afternoon. She'd apparently gone on to purchase herself a rather large supply of beer and schnaps, which she'd proceeded to decimate on an out-of-the-way park bench. Fortunately for Harry, a young couple had wanted to use that bench for an evening tête-à-tête, and found Harry there after she'd fallen unconscious. The young omega of the couple had turned out to be a guardian angel of sorts, as he was currently enrolled in a training programme for nursing assistants and immediately began to administer First Aid. He'd moved Harry into the recovery position on her side right before she began to throw up. His partner, a young alpha female, had called the ambulance in the meantime.

When Harry arrived at the hospital, she'd had a blood alcohol level of over three per mille. An amount that could easily be fatal, especially taking into account Harry's low body weight. It was probably only due to the fact that her body was accustomed to excessive alcohol consumption that she hadn't died of circulatory failure or asphyxia. Or that she hadn't choked on her own vomit because the young man had intervened with such alacrity.

It was ironic that an omega of all people had saved his sister's life, John thought to himself as he prepared for that day's visit to the hospital.

Sherlock had announced that he intended to stay at the hotel, muttering something about research as John said good-bye. They agreed to meet later at John's parents' to sit them down for a serious discussion.

At the hospital, John was informed that his sister had come to in the meantime and been transferred out of intensive care. He found Harry, pale and diminutive, in a four-bed room on the general ward, staring grumpily into the middle distance.

John murmured a half-hearted greeting to the room at large, which was ignored by two of the three other women occupying the room. He dragged a chair over to the narrow space beside Harry's bed.

"How are you doing?" he asked, aiming for a friendly tone. "Are you having any pain? Nausea?"

"As if you give a shit." Harry gave her brother a disparaging look and drew the thin hospital blanket up to her neck. "And spare me with the bedside manner. I'm not one of your patients!"

"Harry! You could have died yesterday."

"Nonsense." Harry rolled her eyes, exasperated. "Do you always have to make everything so dramatic? Nothing happened."

John inhaled and counted to ten in his head to regulate his overheating temper. Only then did he return his gaze to his sister, giving her a penetrating look.

"Do you even realise what happened yesterday?" he hissed. "You would have choked to death if your rescuer hadn't scooped the sick out of your mouth. You were also suffering from hypothermia. You were lucky someone found you. Otherwise you'd be dead."

"I... that's..."

"Is that what you want? To die?!"

"No–" Harry interrupted his tirade before it became even louder. Her big, deep blue eyes were rounded and she grasped John's lower arm with a surprisingly strong grip. "I didn't know any of that... I… "

"Rounds haven't been yet," a muffled voice said from the neighbouring bed.

"Shit!" John growled. He flopped back weakly against the hard plastic back of the chair and pried Harry's hand off his arm, only to take her hand gingerly in his. "Things can't go on like this, Harry. Do you hear me? You can't keep this up."

They sat there in silence for a while, John listening to the sounds of hospital life continuing outside the room. The squeak of footsteps on linoleum, the clatter of dishes, the hum of bustling chatter, the ringing of a phone. He ignored his sister's stuttering breaths and soft sniffles and overlooked the tears which she shamefully wiped away with the corner of her bedsheet. Instead, he stroked the back of her hand soothingly with his thumb until she'd collected herself.

"You can't keep this up," he repeated in a whisper.

"I know, Johnny. I know..."

*

John spent their remaining days in West Bromwich shuttling between his parents' and the hospital. He'd pictured this visit going very differently, intending to gently introduce Sherlock to his family. The fact that his omega had not only been thrown directly into the deep end but virtually dunked, gnawed at John's gut in the form of a guilty conscience. Yet Sherlock hadn't complained once, instead being an extraordinary source of support through these less than pleasant days. Although the break from their routine in London had taken a much different turn than planned, John felt much closer to him now thanks to his assistance and companionship.

The discussion with John's parents was tricky. John not only lectured them on the urgency of not enabling Harry's alcohol dependence any longer, but also brought up the topic of debt which had been wilfully ignored for so long. He listed the facts without sugar-coating anything, just as Sherlock had laid them out to him.

Lorraine wept bitter tears when she finally admitted their financial situation and the loss of the items they'd pawned. When she told John that even his grandfather's and great-grandfather's medals of merit – the Watsons' pride and joy – had met their fate at the pawn shop, John left the house to get some fresh air.

He stood just outside the front door, staring down at the rain-slick asphalt. Sherlock stepped up beside him and put an arm around his waist.

"It's just some tin, John."

"I know. But those medals were always an incentive for me to keep going. The proof that I didn't come from a family of losers; that I could make something of myself. Even if we weren't rich like the parents of my classmates in grammar school." He added, in a tight voice: "They were supposed to go to me one day, you know?"

"Of course," Sherlock replied placidly. He pulled John close and manoeuvred him into a hug.

"Instead they hocked them so Harry could drink more. That bloody addiction and her wallowing in self-pity because she's something she doesn't want to be. And now it's almost killed her. I just don't understand how anyone could be so–"

"–selfish?" Sherlock prompted softly.

John felt Sherlock's body stiffen palpably.

"That's not what I meant."

"Yes, you did. And you're right. It's selfishness, but also desperation and an attempt to find some kind of escape. You don't realise that the addiction only makes everything worse until it's too late. We can only hope this was Harry's wake-up call, and offer your parents our help."

John sighed and tightened the embrace, pressing his nose into the crook of Sherlock's neck.

"You're the best thing that's ever happened to me," he whispered into the fragrant skin there.

*

That night, John lay awake for a long time thinking. He couldn't fall asleep in the uncomfortable, unfamiliar bed: the mattress shook and the bedframe squeaked with so much as the slightest movement of his slumbering omega. One might have thought that years of sleeping on camp beds would have toughened John up, but that was clearly not the case. On the other hand, it might also have been the tension of the past few days taking its toll and causing John's restlessness.

At the moment, he was thinking about Harry's past and her hatred for alphas and omegas. No one had told her that it was an omega who had saved her life, the reason being that no one was quite able to anticipate how she would react to the news.

He thought about the young omega girl, Clara; he could barely remember her. Not even after looking at pictures of her.

Sherlock had looked her up. She hadn't been hard to find; just the opposite, in fact. She was very open on social media with details from her private life. She seemed happy. The mother of five children, all with fiery red hair like hers. A freckled stair-step family, three girls and a pair of twin boys. Her eye-catching alpha a professor of literature at the University of Edinburgh with congenial eyes and a winning smile.

There were pictures of birthdays, Christmases, and other festivities. The arrival of a labrador puppy was celebrated with her virtual audience, just as her eldest daughter's graduation. The twins' first day at a boarding school for omegas and the football trophy held aloft by one of the girls were shared alongside old pictures from Clara's childhood. There was a separate album for artistically decorated cakes. A hobby that Clara apparently pursued with a passion. It was the picture-perfect omega life. A life where a beta like Harry would never have fit in.

Sherlock couldn't help himself, and had found Clara's number after a quick bit of research. Without further ado, he'd rung Scotland and spoken with her. He had barely even mentioned Harry's name before Clara had become upset. Courteous and well-mannered, to be sure, as was to be expected of a well-bred omega, but nonetheless quite adamant.

Clara didn't want to have any contact with Harry. The girls had maintained a pen pal correspondence for a short while when they were younger, but that had fizzled out rather quickly. By the time Clara had met and fallen in love with her future alpha, her relationship with Harry had suffered irreparable damage. Harry hadn't understood why Clara was so intent on following the traditional omega path, and doubted her feelings for the alpha, Charles. In the end, it was Clara who had broken off contact. Even then, Harry had still made repeated attempts to reconnect until Clara had been forced to resort to a white lie. She'd told Harry that her alpha wouldn't tolerate any further contact, and that she shouldn't try anymore.

Poor Harry, John thought to himself. Unrequited feelings were awful, and it pained John that his sister had suffered like that. She'd probably never entirely been able to get over Clara and her feelings for her; in fact, John couldn't recall ever having been aware of a serious partner in Harry's life.

Amidst his musings, he observed the relaxed profile of his sleeping omega and thanked his lucky stars that they had brought Sherlock to him.

*

On the fourth day, John and Sherlock left West Bromwich with mixed emotions and boarded the train for home. John hated the sense of helplessness and powerlessness that kept overtaking him. He wondered whether it might not be better for everyone concerned if he hadn't crashed into his family's settled life like a bull in a china shop. The proud alpha, the prodigal son. Returned like a phoenix risen from ashes, his wonderful, extraordinary omega at his side.

Had he perpetrated an unintended snub on Harry and his parents with his newly gained wealth – both material and immaterial? Was he turning his back on them now that he'd turned everything topsy-turvy and left behind a pile of broken shards for the others to clean up?

What had he done in the end other than leave a couple of pamphlets for treatment facilities on the kitchen table and offer his parents some meaningless platitudes? He could have at least pulled a few strings and set an appointment for his father with an orthopaedist who knew their stuff. That might not solve his parents' unemployment problem, but at least it would be a step in the right direction.

An involuntary smile flitted across his face when Sherlock wove their fingers together from the seat next to him.

"You're blaming yourself for what happened." It was more of a statement than a question.

"How could I not?"

"Because it's not your fault, John."

"I'm not so sure about that," John sighed. "The way I just showed up at my parents' as if I had every right to. My lack of compassion for Harry. And now? What have I left behind other than burnt bridges, pain, and a big mess? Without me, Harry would have never–"

"Stop, John," Sherlock interrupted him firmly. "It was only a matter of time. Harry had already been teetering on the edge for a long time. You weren't the one who pushed her over; she jumped herself. Maybe this is a chance to make a change. Things can only get better for your parents now too."

"Do you really think so?"

Sherlock squeezed John's fingers encouragingly. "Of course. You've found a doctor for your father, and I'm certain they're not going to support Harry financially any longer. Plus, we know about their money problems now. We can help them."

"How?" John asked wearily. "Of course I'll send them money from now on, assuming they'll accept it. But will that be enough? The house is a money pit, but they don't want to sell. They wouldn't find a buyer in the state it's in anyway."

Sherlock made an assenting sound and gazed thoughtfully out the window. John also shifted his attention to the landscape flying past until Sherlock suddenly twisted sideways in the narrow train seat and gave him a triumphant smile.

"We'll buy your parents' house!"

John shook his head with a smirk. "And how's that supposed to work, genius? I was able to set aside a little money when I was in the army, but it's nowhere near enough for an investment like that."

"But I have money, John. My family's well off, and there's a trust fund. I'll ring Mycroft as soon as we're home and–"

"No, Sherlock!" John shook his head vehemently. "We most certainly are not going to beg your brother for money so that we can support my parents financially. They'd never agree to that, and neither do I. We'll think of something else."

With those words, John lifted Sherlock's hand to his lips and dropped a kiss onto his knuckles.

"Thank you anyway for offering. I really appreciate it."

*

When John carried his bag and Sherlock's suitcase up the stairs to their flat that evening, he was exhausted and feeling drained. He was looking forward to a warm shower or better yet a hot bath, a spicy curry delivered by their favourite Indian place, and their own familiar bed. Hopefully with a cuddly, naked omega in it.

He groaned as he pushed open the door to the flat and dropped their luggage. Sherlock followed close on his heels, pawing through the mail from the past few days. He was unable to suppress a smirk.

"I could have carried up my own bag. Didn't we agree that Harry's comment was little more than – _Oh_..."

"What?" John asked as he slipped out of his jacket and shoes and gave his weary limbs a stretch.

He watched with keen interest as his omega extracted a cream-coloured, padded envelope from the wad of invoices, circulars, and newspapers and eyed it suspiciously. Eventually, Sherlock let out an impatient huff and flipped the missive around so that John could take a look as well. The document was addressed to the two of them in an elegant hand, although there was one small detail that immediately caught both of their attention.

Messrs John and Sherlock Watson  
221B Baker Street  
London, NW1 6XE

"That's a new one," John laughed and plucked the envelope out of Sherlock's fingers to check for the sender. In lieu of a name or address, he found only a stamp in the upper left corner. The ink was somewhat smudged and the letters adorned with excessive curlicues, but he was able to make out the initials _W & C_ and something that, with a little imagination, might have said _Murray_.

"Bill..." John gasped with surprise as he tore open the envelope and withdrew a stiff card along with a letter.

"Wilhelmina? What does she want from you? And how did she get your address?" Sherlock asked curiously.

"I left a message on her answering machine after you accused me of being a hermit," John responded absently as he read through the two documents.

"Hm..." Sherlock said. "So what does she want?"

"She's invited us to their son's baptism. With me as the godfather."

+++

tbc


	34. Chapter 34

"The baptism?" Sherlock asked, unable to keep his voice entirely free of disparagement. "Why do they want you to be the godfather? Have you ever seen the child?"

John shrugged with one shoulder and slipped the invitation back inside the cream-coloured envelope. "Only in photos. They even named him after me: Henry _John_ Murray. As thanks for..."

"For what?" Sherlock asked warily when John didn't continue.

John scratched his ear bashfully and avoided Sherlock's eye, giving his head a slight shake. "I don't know exactly. I guess I was partly responsible for their relationship not falling apart."

Sherlock gave his alpha a contemplative look. John hadn't told him much about the episode in which the Murrays had asked him to be their sperm donor. He'd only gone so far as to imply that he hadn't been able to get it up, and that was the reason he hadn't gone through with it. But he'd wanted to. He'd wanted to impregnate another alpha's omega. An omega who had shamelessly thrown herself at him before – allegedly – changing her mind a short while later.

What had really happened?

Had Wilhelmina – Bill – intervened because she hadn't been able to handle the sight of another alpha in her bed? Or had it only been thanks to Sherlock's interruption through their soul bond that the insemination hadn't occurred? Sherlock still couldn't believe that their bond was capable of such supernatural actions; it was simply too fantastical.

What was more likely?

Even if Sherlock had managed to draw John away from Cilia, the fact still remained that he'd been attracted to another omega. Another bonded omega in heat who had wilfully lured him in... with her scent and her... her omegahood. Who would have felt John's knot inside her and been a willing receptacle for his seed—

Sherlock growled and tried to put an end to that train of thought, but doubts rumbled loudly in his gut. What if John was lying to him? What if he hadn't been able to resist the other omega? What if this child was actually John's? And now Sherlock was supposed to go visit this woman and her child, and act as if nothing had happened? Especially now, when he himself was unable to go into heat and give his alpha what he desired more than anything?

What if John saw this other, intact family and realised what was missing in his life? If he noticed all the things Sherlock couldn't offer him, and would never be able to?

Sherlock swallowed thickly. "I'm just saying. It's strange that they've contacted you out of the blue with this, especially as you haven't been in touch for so long. When is the ceremony anyway?" he asked.

"In two weeks."

"That seems quite short notice... A last-minute invitation, as if they hadn't even planned to send one if you hadn't recently contacted them," Sherlock pointed out, making a dismissive gesture. He was painfully aware of the fact that he was the reason John had contacted Bill and Cilia. If he hadn't insisted that John resume communication with his family and small circle of friends, the invitation would probably never have been sent. The irony was bitter and difficult to swallow.

"Then it seems to be a case of good timing," John replied in his typical guileless manner. He set the envelope up on the mantelpiece with a smile before turning around to go into the kitchen, where he filled the kettle and started making tea. "Should we order something in?"

Sherlock squeezed his hands into fists and gnashed his teeth silently. What to do? There was no question of him travelling to the Murrays only to stand by and watch his relationship fall apart. He needed to think of something...

*

That night, Sherlock and John lay in bed exchanging lazy kisses. After a nice dinner which they'd had delivered from the Thai place two blocks away, they'd spent a little time in the living room watching the evening news and perusing the day's paper before deciding to turn in early.

Sherlock's hair was still damp from the shower, but that didn't bother him with John's warm, naked body snuggled up against him. John kissed his neck, nibbling gently on it as he ran one hand down Sherlock's chest, waist, and hips, finally settling it in the dip at the base of his spine. A moment later, he rolled them over together so that Sherlock was lying on top of him.

Sherlock's thigh insinuated itself between John's legs, where he felt his full, heavy balls and the heat of his already rock-hard erection. He himself wasn't as aroused as John: there were too many things going through his head. But he enjoyed having his alpha so close and being able to touch him without any barriers. Over the past few days, their lovemaking had been sadly neglected: they hadn't had enough privacy at the Watsons' house or in the hotel, and thus hadn't been able to work up enough of an appetite for it. Not with all the drama that had accumulated in such a short period of time.

He slowly dragged his fingers across John's satiny foreskin, up to the tip, smeared his index and middle fingers through the first drops of pre-come that had collected there, and licked them off.

A palpable shiver ran through John's body, and a sound of longing escaped his throat. "I've missed this. You," he said, tracing the muscles in Sherlock's back, following the line of his spine down to his rounded arse cheeks, which he squeezed firmly.

In lieu of a verbal response, Sherlock kissed John again, licking his tongue possessively and sharing the salty flavour of the pre-ejaculate fluid. He felt John's erection twitch between their bodies, and John's fingers wandered into his arse crack. Although he couldn't reach down very far from his position, the touch alone set Sherlock's nerve endings on fire. The impulses raced up his back, tingling and sparking as they went, causing him to instinctively arch his back and gravitate toward the touch.

"I want you so much," John said, half choked with lust.

"I want you too."

The scant moonlight filtering into the room through the window submerged the room in dark blue and black tones. Shadows danced across their bodies as Sherlock sat up and encircled their erections with both hands. John grabbed some lubricant from the nightstand and dribbled it between them before Sherlock started to rock his hips slowly back and forth, plunging into the tunnel between his hands and rubbing against John's red-hot flesh.

John continued stroking Sherlock's thighs, hips, and arms, clasped his hands and rubbed their wet glanses as they nuzzled each other. It wasn't easy to find a rhythm that stimulated both men equally, John's cock being quite a bit larger than Sherlock's. Sherlock would have liked to simply take John inside and ride him until their climaxes overpowered them; but that wasn't possible. Not without extensive preparation and stretching of his anus, which was now much too tight. A procedure which neither man had the patience for at the moment, Sherlock thought as he thrust into the damp channel with a cut-off moan.

John wasn't lying there motionless either; he kept lifting his pelvis to get closer to the point of stimulation and his own release. He encouraged Sherlock with salacious comments, moaning over and over as he threw his head back to gasp for air.

Sherlock's imagination returned to the image of him riding John. The way his cock would stretch and fill him, completely stuffing him. Hard and hot inside. The way it would gleam wetly, anointed with his essence, drilling relentlessly into him, triggering innumerable nerve endings and setting Sherlock on fire. The way the knot would expand at the base, bumping against his hole over and over, spreading it open bit by bit until it overcame the last natural barrier and slipped inside. The way his muscles would swallow up the knot and clamp down with a burst of pleasure when the hard-packed flesh pushed against his prostate and filled in every nook and cranny inside him.

Sherlock groaned with surprise when his orgasm rolled over him, and come flowed down over his and John's hands. He realised somewhat distantly that two of his own fingers were buried somewhere inside him, rubbing the hypersensitive bundle of nerves they found there. Tiny flashes of heat shocked his spine with every touch. Before he'd even begun to return to himself, John reached one hand out, placed it at the back of Sherlock's neck, and pulled him down into a hungry kiss. His alpha erection still stood hot and hard between them.

"Sorry," Sherlock murmured between kisses. "I must have... forgot myself a bit."

John shook his head emphatically. "Don't apologise. I love it when you relinquish control over yourself and give in to your lust. You're so unbelievably sexy," John whispered in a gravelly voice and kissed Sherlock again, stroking his tongue across Sherlock's and nipping lightly at his lips. "I wish I could look inside your head and see what you're thinking when you get like that."

Sherlock let out a half chuckle, half snort and nuzzled into the crook of John's neck. "You, of course. You and your knot." He kissed John. "I want to feel it, John. I want to have that intimate connection with you again, like during a heat. Want you to fill me up completely."

John growled with a combination of desire and resignation, wrapped both arms around Sherlock, and squeezed him hard. The stiff cock between them twitched and released more pre-come, which bloomed warmly against Sherlock's stomach. "It will happen when it happens, sweetheart. Have a little more patience. Nature can't be rushed."

"I don't want to wait any longer," Sherlock whispered and reached down between them, grasped John's cock, and pumped it with his fist several times. He rubbed the head, smearing the mélange of pre-come, semen, and lube as he massaged the sensitive glans and frenulum. John's breaths came faster, becoming stuttered and unsteady. Sherlock flung aside the bedcover and scooted down the bed until he was kneeling between John's legs with his arse pointed upward. He exhaled across John's cock without slowing the up-and-down motion of his hand, nudged John's taut, draw-up sac with his tongue and slowly drew one ball into his mouth. He tugged on it gently before letting it go with a soft plop.

John moaned from somewhere deep in his throat, spread his legs a little more, and thrust impatiently into Sherlock's hand.

Sherlock let his tongue wander experimentally across the base of John's cock where the knot would form during a heat, wetting the skin with his saliva before gently plucking at it with his lips. He let out a lascivious sigh, repeated the titillating action, and kissed the inside of John's thigh before returning to the tip of John's cock and enveloping it in his mouth, notwithstanding any remaining traces of lubricant. The faintly chemical taste fused with his alpha's salty note.

"God... Sherlock!"

He sucked and swirled his tongue around it, flattening his tongue against the frenulum only to quickly assault the sensitive nerve pathways with the pointed tip. John grabbed hold of Sherlock's curls to steady himself, squeezing his hand into a fist. The tug on his scalp and the tingling that it sent skittering down his spine like liquid fire only encouraged him. His tongue skimmed the hard edge of the glans, insinuated itself partway underneath the foreskin, then found its way back to the frenulum and sucked on it. Sherlock carefully scraped his teeth across the red-hot erection, sending a heavy shiver through John's body. He bit out a curse and shoved his cock back into the open mouth waiting for it, where he ejaculated just a few seconds later.

Sherlock swallowed the come, sighing with pleasure, then inhaled through his nose and swallowed again. Gradually, the grip on his hair slackened and became a gentle caress.

Breathing heavily, John looked down at Sherlock and pulled him up into his arms, sealing their mouths in a nearly brutal kiss. When he let Sherlock go again, the latter's lips felt swollen and raw. An exhilarating sensation, even if he would rather feel it somewhere else on his body.

It took a few minutes before they'd cleaned up the aftermath of their lovemaking and settled down together snuggled up under the blanket.

"That was fantastic," John whispered, already on the verge of sleep even as his fingers continued to dance across Sherlock's skin. "I missed that the past few days. It's always nicest at home."

Sherlock grunted his agreement and combed his fingers through John's short hair.

The statement had given him an idea.

*

The next day, John returned to the clinic, his holiday officially over.

Sherlock passed the time with doing more research online on how they might be able to help Harry and John's parents. He also sent Mycroft a text asking about the situation with his trust fund, only to receive the curt response: _What do you need money for?_ Sherlock didn't know what the rules of the trust fund were, since Mycroft had always had the signature authority over it. To be exact, Sherlock had never so much as taken a glimpse at the account, as it had never interested him in the slightest.

He knew there was enough money there to allow him to live comfortably for the rest of his life, but Mycroft had found it prudent, in light of Sherlock's past experiences with drugs, to instruct the bank not to distribute more than a certain amount to him monthly: just enough to pay his bills and take care of his regular expenses. If he needed more than that, he had no choice but to ask Mycroft for it. Thus, it wasn't surprising that Mycroft wanted more specifics; after all, he was accustomed to Sherlock spending his "allowance" on Seven.

Sherlock still thought it was a good idea for them to buy John's parents' house, even though John had expressed the opposite opinion. All the same, Sherlock wanted to find out whether an investment like that would be a waste of money, or alternatively completely unproblematic. It was just a question of having security. But explaining that to Mycroft... Sherlock didn't think it would do any good. At least not today. Once he had John on his side, on the other hand, things would look different.

_Forget it,_ Sherlock wrote back and set down his phone.

On his laptop, he scrolled through a forum he'd recently discovered, clicking on several posts to get an overview of the topic. The forum was mainly targeted at and moderated by betas, but alphas and omegas occasionally chimed in as well. It was fascinating to see that there was a significant percentage of betas with an interest in the sexual behaviours of alphas and omegas, although they had to know that they rarely had a chance against an intact bond.

Several threads addressed the lovelorn. Betas complained that the alpha or omega they had their heart set on had ended up choosing another partner, leaving the betas in the lurch. As was to be expected, there was an outpouring of negative commentary against the gender which had interfered in the would-be relationship.

Threads in which betas expressed the opinion that only alpha-omega relationships could be considered natural, as opposed to alpha-beta or beta-omega ones, or in which alphas or omegas made negative remarks about betas, were shut down without warning. Such topics apparently tended to heat up and deteriorate rather quickly, so the forum moderators were particularly alert to them.

Sherlock found it fascinating to see that Harry was far from the only one with the same problem. There didn't seem to be any blanket solution; telling a woman like Harriet Watson that she should simply get over her childhood crush seemed to make as little sense to Sherlock as it would to tell an omega that they should simply get over the fact that they were a second-class citizen. Even if he would never admit that out loud.

The widespread notion promulgated in alpha-omega forums that life would be so much better if there were no betas wasn't an acceptable solution either. After all, that wouldn't change anything about the problems which alphas and omegas faced. And such idiotic arguments that betas should be shipped off to live in their own country (yes, there were actually posts like that) didn't make any sense. To be fair, it was rare, but possible for two beta parents to produce alpha or omega offspring – as documented by the case of the Watsons. Should such families be torn apart and the children sent alone to live in another country that was entirely foreign to them?

And what about people who were simply … different? People like Mycroft? Even after all these years, Sherlock still had never broached the topic with his brother, and didn't feel any need to do so now. If Mycroft wanted to share his secret with Sherlock, he was going to have to do so on his own initiative. And if not... then Sherlock wasn't about to concern himself with it. In his mind, alphas who were sexually attracted to other alphas were nothing but a myth.

And yet such individuals might have some knowledge that could help Sherlock... _hm_.

He continued his search.

*

Over the next several days, Sherlock took advantage of a variety of opportunities to surprise John with little sexual escapades. Whether waking him in the morning with a blowjob, getting into the shower with him, tearing his clothes off as soon as he got home from the clinic, or sending him naughty texts throughout the day – he never ran out of ideas.

John obviously enjoyed the extra dose of animalistic debauchery, but after more than a week of tempestuous passion, he finally started to question Sherlock's motives. After sending a particularly titillating text message whose composition had cost Sherlock the better part of an hour because he kept having to replace or reorder the words until everything was perfect, the rather lukewarm response was: _I need to work, sweetheart - please stop distracting me._

Sherlock stared at his screen and twisted his mouth grumpily. Had he overdone it? Did too much sex lead to loss of appetite, even for an alpha? Or was there not enough variety in their lovemaking? They rarely had penetrative sex, since the preparation took too long and even then it was often a painful experience for Sherlock. He'd even pushed John away once before he'd gotten more than halfway in. His body simply didn't seem to be made for anything like that outside of a heat.

Yet Sherlock had always believed that his body was required to obey him – not the other way round.

The various forums and websites he'd visited had given him a few ideas. He'd found out that it was a kind of game amongst betas to trigger an alpha's knot in order to prove to them that they didn't need an omega to find sexual fulfilment. The various methods often included the use of chemical pheromones similar to those of an omega in heat. However, they didn't work on bonded alphas.

Others said that they were able to turn on their alphas enough with roleplay and expressly submissive behaviour that a knot began to form, if only for a short time. Whether such a reaction occurred was heavily dependent on the individual alpha's personality, however. Some of them enjoyed certain acts more than others, or were turned on by other things.

Yet even if a beta managed to coax an alpha's knot into forming, it was another matter entirely to get it inside. An alpha's erection was on the large side anyway. Inserting a knot in addition could lead to serious injury if the recipient wasn't properly prepared. But it was possible. Many betas reported that they stretched their muscles before beginning a lovemaking session with an alpha – simply in the interest of saving time. The use of alpha plugs and dildos was one obvious method, and the consumption of chemical substances designed to relax the muscles within a short period of time had increased drastically in the last twenty years.

These so-called 'sparks' weren't addictive and thus weren't controlled; on the contrary, they were readily available. However, there were studies that indicated that sex without such aids became less attractive for many users after a while. Sparks could therefore definitely have a psychological effect.

Sherlock regarded the small vial with the colourful label in his hand with a suspicious eye, rotating it from one side to the other. All of the users whose reports he had read were betas. In other words, he had no idea if a spark like this would have any negative effects on his omega physiology. He could ask Mike Stamford for advice, but... how in the world was he supposed to explain what he was planning to do? No, definitely not, out of the question.

Sherlock checked his watch and calculated that he had a little over an hour before John returned from the late shift. That should be enough, he decided, and went into the bathroom. After a thorough wash, he walked nude into the bedroom and opened the bottom drawer of his dresser, where he kept the alpha dildo he'd bought several months ago to get John's goat.

He examined the lifelike facsimile with a critical eye, still convinced that it was slightly smaller than John was when erect. The collapsed knot at the base was a little odd-looking, silicon having different properties than skin. Still, the replica was astonishingly good. The knot could be inflated and deflated by means of a small remote control so that the user could free themselves of the toy whenever they wanted.

At the thought of the way John's knot had filled him up to the point of bursting, Sherlock felt a libidinous twinge in his loins. He looked down, dragging his fingers over his bare chest and flat stomach, slipping down into his short pubic hair and along his flaccid cock. He laid the toy on the bed, took the half-empty tube of lubricant gel out of the nightstand, and set it down beside it. He placed the vial with the spark within reach on top of the little table; he wouldn't need it for the time being.

A short while later, Sherlock was writhing on the sheet. Three dripping wet fingers glided effortlessly through his sphincter, brushing his prostate almost as an afterthought. He didn't care to stimulate the sensitive nerve bundle too much at the moment; after all, the point of the exercise was to stretch his muscles.

Images from his first and second heat with John flashed through his head. Emotional impressions that were most likely seared forever into his memory. To be sure, he didn't have many points of comparison; after all, John was the first person he'd had this kind of sex with, and their first time had been imprinted vividly in his mind. Perhaps because it hadn't been entirely consensual. Although it was true that Sherlock had been in the throes of the desperation of his first true heat, and he was the one who had called John and informed him of the impending surge. Could he really absolve himself of any responsibility?

He still wondered to this day whether he would have agreed to intercourse with John if he hadn't been in the midst of a hormonal delirium. Probably not. Although he'd probably always had a soft spot of some sort for the man, his animosity toward alphas was too strong. And yet the attraction which existed above and beyond their soul bond couldn't be denied. In other words, if he'd had to choose between John and another alpha, he would have chosen John without a second thought. He couldn't say whether that was enough of a justification, but nature didn't leave him much choice in that regard.

Sherlock sighed and slid his fingers out, reaching for the tube again. He drizzled a generous amount of gel onto the business end of the dildo then distributed it all the way down to the base. He hastily wiped his slimy fingers off on the towel he'd laid out ahead of time before crouching and gingerly sinking down onto the replica. The rounded head pressed against his anus, pushing inside a short distance before the muscle ring protested with a twinge. Sherlock paused, checked with his fingers, and found that the head wasn't even halfway inside.

Damn...

His own erection slowly began to fade as he attempted to convince his body to give in with cautious up and down motions. His eye was caught by the spark vial standing on the edge of the nightstand, as if inviting him to use it. He'd wanted to save it for when John came home, but it might make more sense to get past this most difficult part with chemical assistance, and hope that he would be relaxed enough when the time came to accommodate John's knot. He really didn't want to take two doses; after all, he didn't even know how he would react to the first one.

This train of thought was finally what convinced him. Not that he had any less respect for John's knot, but because he simply couldn't be sure how his body would react. Worst case, he'd call off the entire endeavour before John got wind of it and act as if nothing had happened.

Sherlock hastily grabbed the small bottle. He'd already read through the instructions a good dozen times and had them memorised. As he twisted the cap, it released the pressure inside with a loud pop. The colourful foil wrapping around the ampulle cracked apart. The pungent scent of solvent assaulted Sherlock's nose, making him instinctively flinch away for a brief moment.

He pinched one nostril closed, his heart pounding, raised the mouth of the bottle to the other nostril and inhaled. He repeated the process on the other side, then closed the lid and buried the spark underneath his pillow. His brain promptly went fuzzy. The penetrating odour blanketed his olfactory receptors, sending a variety of signals racing along his nerve pathways which he was having trouble deciphering. He shook his head to clear it, but it didn't help. Rather than letting himself get distracted any longer by his body's reactions, he picked up the dildo, held it steady, and sank down onto it again.

It wasn't as if his body offered no further resistance; it was more that the resistance was dulled. The pain gave way to an almost pleasurable ache. A few moments later, the broadest part of the head slid past his sphincter and settled inside him. As it did so, tingly goosebumps spread across Sherlock's skin, making him shiver with pleasure. He sighed in relief. His heart was pounding against his ribs, going a mile a minute. He was covered in a thin sheen of sweat and heat spots appeared on his chest. His cheeks were flushed and his throat felt parched.

He sank further down, welcoming more of the silicon toy inside him, then straightened and let it slide almost all the way out. He repeated the ploy a few times, enjoying the friction against all the countless nerve endings around his anal opening and the relentless stimulation on his prostate. Fascinated by what his body was capable of, he traced the stretched ring of muscle with the fingers of the hand he wasn't using to hold the dildo upright and bit down on his lower lip. His own erection perked up within a matter of seconds, and his glans emerged from the sheath of his foreskin, red and milky wet.

After a few minutes had passed, Sherlock sat up far enough that the toy slipped all the way out. His hole felt swollen, almost raw, but it was now easy to slide three fingers in at once. Sherlock spread some more lube on the dildo and between his arse cheeks, as well as inside. As he lowered himself all the way down to the base of the simulant cock again, an electrified shiver ran through his body, making him moan out loud. His nipples contracted into stiff buds, and his pelvis jerked with lust of its own accord.

He picked up the small remote control for the knot and activated it with bated breath. A low hum sounded, and as he once again worked his way down to the base, he felt the expected resistance of the silicon protrusion.

"Oh God, yes," Sherlock whispered raggedly and sped up his pistoning motions until his cock bounced against his stomach with a soft slapping sound. He had no doubt that it wouldn't take much more until he climaxed. If he wasn't careful, the game would be up before John got home. A greedy, touch-starved part of him almost didn't care.

But the knot wasn't inside yet. Neither John's nor that of the alpha dildo. The actual experiment he'd set out to perform wasn't completed yet. Not by a long shot. Impatient now, he forced himself down onto the silicon knot, feeling the way his muscle ring stretched a little more each time.

He paused then, fighting against every instinct he possessed. His heart was racing, his thigh muscles were on fire, and the hand holding the dildo was cramped and painful.

He'd heard something.

A glance at the clock on the nightstand informed him that it was already much later than he'd thought, and now that he wasn't so distracted, he could also smell John's scent. John was on his way up the stairs to the flat. It would only be a matter of seconds before he smelled Sherlock and his arousal.

Sherlock leaned all the way forward, pushing his face into the pillow, and held himself up on his elbows as he spread his legs a little more and arched his back to lift his backside up in invitation. It was the same position he'd greeted John with the first time. The only difference was that he wasn't in heat this time, and that there was already an alpha cock inside him – even if it wasn't a real one. It remained to be seen how John would react.

Sherlock listened to the sounds in the flat, his heart pounding nervously. He heard John stop in his tracks, only to direct his steps quickly towards the bedroom a moment later. John would recognise that the pheromones in the air weren't the same as during a heat. Still, he would smell Sherlock's arousal, the pre-come, sweat, and unbridled lust that had his body in their grip.

The door swung open and banged against the wall. Sherlock opened one eye and peered up at John between strands of hair as he drew the dildo a little ways out, then pushed it back in with a throaty sigh. His erection twitched lasciviously and a single clear drop of fluid beaded off the tip and dripped onto the sheet.

"Fuck," John swore with awe and stepped further inside the room. As if in a trance, he closed the door behind him with a soft click. He then immediately slipped off his shoes and socks and took his shirt off. He struggled with the cuffs without taking his eyes off Sherlock, eventually tearing at the sleeves until he'd freed himself. Slowly, like a beast stalking its prey, he paced around the bed before coming to a stop at the foot, where he had the best view.

"The knot," he remarked, his voice thick. He swallowed hard before continuing: "You've never used it before."

Without giving a response, Sherlock straightened up, steadying himself with one hand whilst holding the dildo firmly in the other and demonstratively lowering himself onto it. He bore down on the silicon with his full weight, feeling his muscle stretch even further than before until the knot was finally wedged inside him. Sherlock groaned, almost in shock. His arms and legs were trembling and his cock produced a glob of pre-come that left a visible stain on the sheet. His erection was so red and hard that, in another frame of mind, he might have worried it would explode.

"No! You're mine!" he heard John cry. The mattress sank down behind Sherlock and hands grabbed him.

"John!" Sherlock gasped, feeling around blindly for the remote. He pushed a button and felt the knot deflate just in time before John got a grip on the base of the dildo and pulled on it. It slid out of Sherlock without resistance and was unceremoniously tossed against the wardrobe – going by the sound at any rate. A split second later, Sherlock felt the heat of John's body, the rough fabric of his jeans against the backs of his thighs, and an erection crowding his hole. He gulped in air, moaning out loud when John thrust into him hard, filling him up over and over.

"Did he touch you?" John growled hoarsely as he yanked Sherlock up, almost manhandling him and scratching his chest as if in doing so he could destroy all trace of the imaginary rival. "I'll kill him, you hear? You belong to me!"

One hand dug into Sherlock's hip and the other encircled his throat, forcing his head to one side so that John could reach the bite mark. He sucked hard on the scarred skin, biting down – not hard enough to draw blood, but the tooth marks would certainly be visible for the rest of the day. The bite and possessive grip sent adrenaline coursing through Sherlock's veins. He'd imagined several scenarios, but never that John would react this way.

Overwhelmed with emotion, he surrendered to his alpha, crushing himself against him and burrowing submissively into the embrace of his strong arms.

"Yours... yours..." he said between stuttering breaths. "Show me who I belong to!"

Before he realised what was happening, Sherlock's head was pushed back down into the pillow. Hands grabbed his hips, dragging him around and moving him into position, followed by the establishment of a merciless rhythm that made Sherlock moan mindlessly into the bedding. The slap of skin against skin echoed in his ears and John's guttural snarls made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

John leaned forward with his full weight until Sherlock's hips gave way and he ended up lying flat. John shoved Sherlock's legs apart with his knees, straddled them and surged forward into him. Hard and relentless.

"Fuck, Sherlock. You're so wet, so hot."

Sherlock came. His body surrendered, his nerves quivering against the onslaught. Pure ecstasy washed over him, sweeping his body clean for the span of several fleeting seconds. He felt his cock twitching against his abdomen and the wet bloom of his ejaculation. A whimper escaped his throat.

Just a moment later, John had him up on his knees again, pulling him backwards so far that he was virtually seated in John's lap. Sherlock clung to John's arm, exhausted. John's other hand reached around, feeling for his cock, and rubbed the hypersensitive skin there. He registered as if from a distance as John brought the now soiled hand to his mouth and licked it off, followed by a satisfied smacking of his lips.

John grabbed Sherlock's wrist roughly, twisted his arm back, and brought it down between their bodies.

"Oh, God," Sherlock said when he felt the swollen knot. John's knot. He'd done it. He'd made it form outside of a heat. His still half-hard cock twitched, tired but no less interested. "I want it, John. Please!"

"Yeah?" John said, but it was clear from his tone that it was a rhetorical question. He only wanted to tease Sherlock a little, make him gag for it a little more.

"I need you!"

Cold gel dribbled between their bodies, making Sherlock jerk with shock. Apparently John wasn't entirely lost to his lust: he'd understood that Sherlock wasn't producing any omega essence which would have eased penetration. The cool lube warmed up within the space of a few heartbeats. No sooner was it distributed than the tempo of the thrusts increased again, and Sherlock clawed into the pillow to steady himself.

John thrust in over and over, forcing his knot further inside each time until he'd surpassed the broadest section of his hole and was completely enveloped inside Sherlock.

Alpha and omega moaned in unison.

The pressure inside Sherlock was almost unbearable; all of his nerves were in flames as they sung in ecstasy. Another dollop of come welled up out of the tip of his cock and seeped into the already wet sheet as he felt John spurt and fill him up. John pushed against him as if trying to penetrate even further inside. The unyielding pressure of his fingers didn't release until several long seconds later, allowing the chalk-white impressions to fill with blood and turn dark red.

Drained and overwhelmed, Sherlock released the last dregs of energy from his muscles and let himself go boneless as John carefully lowered himself on top of Sherlock and turned them both onto their sides. His arms wrapped firmly around Sherlock, he pressed his damp forehead between Sherlock's shoulder blades and sighed happily.

It couldn't have been more than a couple of minutes before Sherlock felt John's knot deflate. Semen spilled over the edge of his hole and ran down his arse cheek. They would remain joined much longer during a heat, but there was nothing he could do about that now. John snuggled against him as if trying to prevent himself from slipping out of Sherlock. He pressed his face against Sherlock's skin, squeezing his omega so hard that it left Sherlock breathless.

"I don't want it to be over yet," Sherlock said, his voice thick as he clung to John's arms.

"That… that was incredible. I didn't know that… Christ, that it was even possible for my knot to react outside of a heat. That's never happened before."

Sherlock chuckled lightly. "I wasn't sure it would work, but the experiment was definitely worth it. And it was surprisingly simple."

"You can say that again!"

"I'm quite satisfied with the results," Sherlock said smugly. "Now that I know how to activate your knot, we can do that more often. Of course, we can't do it just anywhere and anytime, but as long as we're alone here..." Sherlock smiled mischievously. Would John still want to take his trip, knowing that they could have such fantastic sex here? Would he still want to see Cilia?

"Fuck... When I saw that other knot penetrating you – didn't matter whether it was real or not... I … No, if it had been real I think I would have killed the alpha it belonged to. No question," John said, apparently having missed the condition Sherlock had set. "That's fairly unsettling. I actually lost control over myself, quite literally."

"Hmm... Jealousy is a powerful motivator."

"Did it hurt?" John asked, but Sherlock shook his head.

"No. I found a way to make the whole thing much easier."

"What's that?" John asked. The suspicion in his voice was unmistakeable.

Sherlock sighed and slipped his hand beneath the pillow to retrieve the little bottle. He held it up near his shoulder so that John could see it.

John took it and read the label. "Sherlock, this – Are you serious?" he asked, pulling away from Sherlock.

The sudden distance and coolness at his back made Sherlock shiver. He rolled onto his back, reaching for the towel at the same time to catch most of the semen leaking out of him.

"Why not?! A lot of people use sparks to relax their muscles during sex, and—"

"This stuff might not be on the controlled substances list, but it still causes addiction in its users, Sherlock! Especially those who already have a history with drugs. Before you know it, you'll be back on the needle, injecting some shit or other into your veins!" John rolled off the bed in a proper huff, pulled his dirty pants and trousers up to cover himself, straightened his undershirt, and marched to the bathroom. "I didn't think you were that stupid!" he said, and disappeared inside.

Hurt and confused, Sherlock stared at the backlit glass panel and listened as water started running.

*

_Ouch_, Sherlock thought and gritted his teeth as he stood under the shower and washed himself. The effects of the spark had dissipated a while ago, and his body was reporting back with loud protests. Every muscle ached, but his arse hurt more than anything.

It had obviously been naïve of him to think that John would react with arousal to the dildo, especially since he'd already established in the past that the toy didn't represent a placeholder for him. The entire affair had only been settled once they'd made their feelings for one another clear. Since then, they'd even incorporated the dildo in their lovemaking a few times. And it was for that reason that Sherlock had never guessed that John would overstep his limits so far.

Sherlock brushed his swollen anus disconsolately with his fingertips, probing for injuries, but fortunately didn't find any.

After his shower, John had only stopped by the bedroom to get clean clothes out of the wardrobe. He'd then gone into the living room to get dressed and left the flat without telling Sherlock where he was going or when he intended to return. Just like he'd used to do.

Had Sherlock's little experiment destroyed everything?

Sherlock shook his head incredulously. He didn't understand why John had overreacted so much. Sparks weren't drugs. Alleging that it would turn Sherlock into an addict again just because he used to take Seven was more than a little presumptuous and – to put it quite mildly – ridiculous. He had everything under control and would never resort to chemical substances—

Well, all right. Sparks were chemical substances that had an influence on the body. But they weren't addictive, that was a proven fact. At least not physically. There were no physical symptoms of withdrawal, especially not when such aids were only used infrequently.

After Sherlock had remade the bed with fresh linens and John still wasn't back yet, he sat down with his laptop and researched psychological addiction.

_… thoughts are constantly focused on procuring more..._

_… can lead to malaise and depressive moods..._

_… more difficult to treat than physical addiction..._

Sherlock angrily slammed the lid of his laptop shut, plunging the living room into darkness. He steepled his fingers in front of his lips and stared into the nothingness. Of course none of that meant that he would necessarily become addicted, but he had to admit that the risk was much higher than he'd thought. He certainly didn't want to go through the hell of withdrawal again, much less drag John in with him. Because one thing was clear: a relapse into addiction would involve his soul mate, whether he wanted to or not.

No, it wasn't going to come to that.

Sherlock opened the laptop again and activated the app to locate John's phone. Only a few seconds elapsed before the programme found his signal and triangulated his likely position. Without wasting any more time, Sherlock tossed back a pill for the pain, slipped into his coat, shoes, and scarf, and left the flat.

*

Sherlock slammed the taxi door behind him, straightened his coat, and stuffed both ends of his scarf inside the collar. The Thames promenade lay a short distance away, illuminated by orange-tinted light from a few streetlamps. The lights of the London Eye blinked red, blue, and white on the other side of the river, as if dancing to some inaudible music.

John sat on a park bench, his hands buried in his pockets and his shoulders hunched up. His gaze wasn't directed at the rolling of the dark ripples on the water, but was lost in the void. The hard line of his jaw made it clear even from a distance that he was gritting his teeth like a gundog that refused to relinquish its prey.

Sherlock walked around the long way to approach the bench from behind. The wind was coming off the river, such that the scent of his alpha's unhappiness wafted toward him. At the same time, it also meant that John probably wouldn't sense him until he was standing right next to him. He was therefore that much more surprised when John spoke first.

"I knew something was wrong. You've never been sex-averse – at least not once we'd—" John sighed and reoriented himself. "But this past week? It was excessive. You were after me every day, sometimes two or three times. I thought at first you wanted to make up for the time we'd lost at my parents'. Then that you were maybe hoping to trigger a heat. Sort of reminding your body that we both want it. I should have realised you were trying to tell me something instead."

Sherlock walked around the bench and sat down beside John. They didn't touch.

"What's that?"

John shrugged. "I'm not sure. All sorts of possibilities ran through my head on my way here; I kept going back and forth over it... After what happened tonight I'm even more confused than before."

Sherlock didn't say anything, instead watching the lights on the other side of the Thames.

"I can understand you not wanting to wait for a heat any longer. I'd also be happy if it started up again, but... it shouldn't be a condition for our happiness. Your body – or rather, your mind – isn't ready for it yet. You're physically healthy, as Mike ascertained. So something else must be preventing you from allowing that part of you to come out," John said, turning his head to face Sherlock.

Sherlock swallowed thickly but didn't react to the deduction. He didn't know himself what was wrong with him. When there was no response, John turned away again and sighed.

"I can understand if you're still bothered by what happened with Moran. It was all so—"

"That's not it," Sherlock interrupted him.

"All right, what is it then?"

Sherlock pinched his brows together as he tried to come up with an answer, attempting to focus on a spot in the distance. A fixed point. Something that would stop him from looking at John and having to be confronted by the disappointment and helplessness in his eyes.

"Does it have anything to do with Sebastian's or Anastasia's death?"

"No."

"Harry?"

"No! Damn it, John, what is this? Twenty questions?"

"I don't really have any other choice if you won't tell me what the problem is, do I?" John huffed. A hint of red had appeared on his cheeks, but Sherlock wasn't sure if it was from his emotional state or the cold.

Sherlock sighed crossly. "I don't know what the problem is, all right? If I knew, I'd have done something about it a long time ago. But it's just as much a mystery to me as it is to you."

They sat in silence for a while, listening to the water and the waning street traffic at their backs. It was already past eleven PM.

"Listen, it's not your fault that... that your body won't do what you want. Sometimes things take time, and if they don't get it, they'll take it. You'll have another heat sooner or later, and I'm the last one who'd bear you any ill will for that. Bloody hell, I've only had sex with betas for most of my life! There's nothing wrong with that."

Sherlock huffed disparagingly. "Thank you for that reminder!"

"God, that's not how I meant it! Don't twist my words around," John griped and rested his elbows on his knees as he rubbed his face. "What I mean to say is I enjoy having sex with you. Whether during a heat or not. It's not a condition for me still wanting to have sex with you," John said firmly. When several seconds passed without a response from Sherlock, John turned to look at him, but Sherlock was still staring at the black expanse between them and the horizon.

He was trying to find the right words to express his concerns. But how was he supposed to talk about something he couldn't name?

"What if..." Sherlock broke off, averted his face and swore inwardly.

"If what?" John said.

"What if you... meet another omega and... fall in love?"

"What makes you come up with that?" John asked, clearly bewildered. "We have a soul bond, Sherlock. I'm not about to fall in love with someone else!"

"You can't know that. Not even a soul bond is a guarantee of that. Betas constantly fall in love with other people and leave their previous partner. Their divorce rate increases every year, and their supposed life-long vows get broken willy-nilly. Families fall apart, fortunes are distributed unequally. Everything falls apart."

"It's completely different with alphas and omegas," John asserted, fixing Sherlock with an earnest look.

"Is it though?"

"Of course! Marriage is nothing but a contract, while a bond between an alpha and an omega is the symbiosis of two individuals right down to the cellular level. It's more than a piece of paper and a gold ring!"

"And yet Moran was bonded to six omegas concurrently, and there are many omegas who never consent to a bond but are forced into it. Isn't a contract and a ring better, if you're not sure whether you might not prefer to change your mind later?" Sherlock asked. No sooner had the words passed his lips than he jerked back in shock. "That's—"

"D-do you—"

"No! No, John. I don't want us to separate."

John's face was white as a sheet. His eyes darted nervously around Sherlock's face, trying to discern truth, lie, or reality.

Sherlock reached over and placed one hand over John's and held it tight. "I love you, John, and after everything we've been through, I can't imagine anything about that would ever change. But..." Tears pricked beneath his lids and heat spread under his collar and scarf. "There's no guarantee that will always be the case... is there?"

"Sherlock..." John closed his mouth and stared down at their hands, at a loss for words. He shook his head. "I don't know. I don't know what to say to that. After everything... after everything that's happened in the last few months, I'd... hoped that you'd have more faith in us; in what we can be for each other."

He looked up, his eyes meeting Sherlock's.

"I love you, Sherlock. That's my reality. Anything above and beyond that is immaterial for me unless it changes something between us. And..." He paused, bit his lower lip, and sighed. "And I hope that you'll... tell me if... if anything changes for you," he said, but the last bit was almost inaudible, swallowed in a sob.

When Sherlock saw John falling apart, tears running down his cheeks, he reached out and pulled him in, hugging him as hard as he could.

"I'm sorry, John, I'm sorry," he whispered raggedly and nuzzled into John's short blond hair. "Everything's okay. I'm not going anywhere."

What he didn't voice out loud was that he had doubts as to whether John could say the same.

+++

tbc


	35. Chapter 35

Disgruntled, John flipped up the collar of his waxed jacket in order to gain at least a modicum of protection against the wind sweeping through the streets of London. He sighed with resignation when it also began to drizzle. The days were getting shorter and the weather more unstable. The leaves on the trees had all turned already, and autumn and Halloween decorations had invaded the storefront windows. Soon they would be giving way to cheesy Christmas displays.

His hands buried in his pockets, John clutched the tub of analgesic, anti-inflammatory salve he'd procured for Sherlock despite his omega assuring him that morning before John left for the clinic that his maltreated arse didn't hurt. John hadn't believed a single word, having seen the way Sherlock winced when he descended on the kitchen chair with exaggerated caution.

What the hell had that idiot been thinking? What had John been thinking? He should have known something was up as soon as he'd got home that evening. The scents of arousal, unbridled lust, and adrenaline that had greeted him in the entryway should have set his alarm bells ringing. Instead, in the clutches of some imagined jealousy, he'd pounced on Sherlock like a hungry, mindless beast and in doing so, enacted the instinct-driven alpha behaviour he so despised. That _Sherlock_ so despised.

Aside from that, there was something nagging at the back of his mind that he was overlooking. Something was fishy, and it wasn't just the lack of heats. He hadn't realised how much he himself yearned for their return until last night. But when he'd seen Sherlock kneeling on the bed, sweaty and hard, his legs spread like they had been the first night they'd spent together, with that bloody plastic cock lodged down to the knot inside _his_ omega, an adrenaline-spiked mixture of anger and arousal had washed over him. There had been hunger and longing as well. Longing for intercourse that sex outside of a heat couldn't hold a candle to, no matter how exciting and sensual it was. Now that the realisation had revealed itself like a literal Pandora's box, John didn't know how he was supposed to reassure Sherlock in future that he didn't place any value on precisely that natural union between alpha and omega.

And then there were the blasted drugs. He squeezed the tub of salve in his pocket so hard that he heard the plastic creak. Should he have predicted that it was only a matter of time before Sherlock resorted to chemical substances again? He was an addict after all, even if he was sober at the moment. But Sherlock was also reckless and at times shockingly careless. He recalled all too vividly Sherlock's misguided experiment with the pheromone blockers which had set off an artificial heat. He should probably be glad that Sherlock wasn't researching that right now, and had only tried the sparks.

Sparks... John felt like a bloody hypocrite. Sanctimonious scum. Last night hadn't been his first encounter with the drug. Not by a long shot. Quite the opposite, in fact. Sparks had been in use as a recreational drug during his time in the army as widespread as liquor or cigarettes. The colourful little bottles had been hoarded by beta soldiers in particular and shared around when they'd found favour with an alpha. John had been aware that such things happened, and he hadn't cared. He'd borne witness more than once to one of his temporary bed mates holding one of the multihued vials under their nose and inhaling right before he'd penetrated them. The substance worked as a muscle relaxant, affording a large alpha cock nearly effortless entry. A sex aid that wasn't addictive.

John had even tried sparks once himself. At university, during a short-lived liaison with a fellow student who wasn't disinclined to experimentation. They hadn't had much of an effect on him. On the contrary, the pungent solvent smell had only given him a dull headache, but otherwise not done anything for him. His flings had always assured him that the stench didn't bother them, and at some point John had stopped asking.

Sparks might be socially acceptable, in other words, but it was another matter entirely when his high-risk omega resorted to the substance and didn't even inform John beforehand. He felt manipulated, coerced into an act that he (hopefully) wouldn't have participated in if he'd been in full control of his faculties. Christ, he could have given Sherlock serious injuries.

John growled as he kicked at a pile of damp leaves. The expected satisfaction at the flying leaves was foiled by one sticking to his right shoe. As he leaned down to remove the orange maple leaf, he caught sight of a black town car rolling to a stop beside him. John straightened up, already suspicious, when the window was lowered and someone called his name. A young alpha gave John a polite smile and asked him to step closer.

"Dr Watson, might I trouble you to come with me? My employer wants to speak with you."

"Your employer?" John said, nonplussed. "And who might that be?"

The man's smile deepened, and John fancied he caught a flash of pride in the man's dark eyes for a fraction of a second. "Mr Holmes, sir."

John withstood the temptation to roll his eyes and settled for a dismissive shake of his head.

"If Mr Holmes wants to see me, he should come in person," John grumbled, stepped back from the kerb, and continued walking. The car kept pace with him.

"Sir, please. I really must insist that you come with me."

"What happens if I don't?" John snorted with amusement. "Are you going to knock me out and kidnap me?"

"I'd prefer not to have to resort to such measures, but..." The alpha left the sentence unfinished, thus confirming John's off-the-cuff remark.

He was tempted to see whether it was an empty threat or not. However, just then lightning flashed across the sky and the drizzle was supplanted by heavy drops. Anyway, although he'd never admit it, John was curious to know what Mycroft Holmes wanted from him.

*

Following a silent journey in the car, John was deposited in front of an imposing townhouse with white pillars, bay windows, and balconies.

_Well would you look at that_, he sneered to himself, _it's the infamous private club where the elite city alphas get together for pissing matches_. He was still grinning when an elderly beta in formal livery opened the door and gave him a distrustful look.

"John Watson. Mycroft Holmes is expecting me."

The man nodded and signalled for John to follow him. He placed one finger across his lips and indicated a brass sign on the wall calling for silence. John had to swallow down a laugh: the entire situation was simply too surreal.

The room he was ushered into was large and ornately appointed. There were leather wing chairs scattered around, each with its own small table, and an elegant couch stood in front of the fireplace. Alphas dressed in posh attire sat here and there, all isolated from each other and brooding on their own thoughts. The only sounds which cut into the silence – jarring with their volume – were the rustling of newspaper pages and the squeak of John's soles on the polished wooden floor. Aside from the cacophony of alpha scents, it stank of elitist noblesse, established aristocracy, and money. John had rarely felt so out of place amidst his peers.

The butler led John out of the main room into a side corridor, the walls of which were lined with several heavy wooden doors. He stopped in front of the last one, knocked firmly, and opened it once a clear "Come in!" sounded from within. The beta nodded to John and closed the door silently behind him, once he'd gone inside.

John looked around the elegant room, his curiosity piqued. Two cognac-coloured armchairs stood facing each other in the middle of the floor. Neither was occupied. Instead, Mycroft Holmes sat enthroned behind a massive desk, with a painting of her majesty when she was younger hanging over his shoulder. John didn't let himself be intimidated by Mycroft's position, which was clearly intended to communicate a certain hierarchical order, and approached the desk. He spread both arms in invitation, his palms facing up, and tilted his head to one side.

"Well, here I am. Do I get to find out what this whole charade is about? If you want to talk to me, you could just pick up the phone."

"Dr Watson, how nice that you could find the time," Mycroft intoned in a nasal accent without favouring him with so much as a glance.

John refrained from a sarcastic reply along the lines of an abduction in broad daylight not exactly being 'finding the time.' Instead, he watched as Mycroft placed his signature on a document with a flourish and slid the lid back on the fountain pen he'd used for it.

Mycroft deliberately set the pen aside, tore the narrow sheet out of its book, folded it in half, and nudged it across the desk towards John. Only then did he look up, regarding the man across from him with obvious displeasure.

"What's this?" John asked warily.

"Perhaps you should simply have a look. I'm sure it will speak for itself."

John sighed, picked up the note, and unfolded it. It was a cheque made out to him. The six-figure amount indicated had John gasping in surprise.

"What's the meaning of this?"

"Well, Dr Watson. I feel certain that this sum should suffice to cover the costs for your sister's treatment and part of your parents' debts—"

"Have you gone completely mad?" John interrupted Mycroft brusquely.

"No? All right, I can plump that up a bit. Shall we say another thirty thousand?" He opened his cheque booklet, uncapped his pen again, and had already started to fill in the required information when John's fist slammed down on the desk. Mycroft paused.

"I want to know what you're talking about here, Mycroft."

"Dr Watson, I must say, I'm surprised that my brother's trust fund has only now become a topic of interest within your relationship. Considering the financial environment from whence you come and the substantial holdings of the Holmeses."

Mycroft leaned back in his chair and twirled the fountain pen between his fingers. He inspected John with a look of disdain, as if he were an unattractive insect.

"It took me a few days following Sherlock's call to connect the dots. But now it's all become clear. You'll be pleased to hear that I've organised a spot in a rehab facility for your sister; the same one where Sherlock got clean. She was quite grateful and will be checking in next week."

"You've spoken to my sister?" John asked, aghast. "And what call from Sherlock… oh _fuck_! That bloody… He can never… bloody hell!"

"Now, now, Dr Watson. I really must ask you to control yourself," Mycroft scolded him, visibly irritated. Although he wasn't entirely able to conceal the gleam of amusement in his eyes. However, the smug smirk slid off his face as soon as John took a step toward him, his left hand forming a fist.

"I have no idea what Sherlock told you, or what conclusions you may have drawn," John hissed. It took a concerted effort on his part to control his rapidly accelerating breaths, and he noticed that he was starting to tremble with anger. He needed to muster all of his self-control in order not to reach across the table, grab the other alpha by the throat, and shake him until he showed a little respect.

"But let me make one thing clear: I have no interest whatsoever in your money. Or in Sherlock's. And I forbid you from having contact with my family without express permission. If Sherlock thinks… no, strike that. I'll talk to my omega myself. And as for this…" He ripped the cheque in half and tossed it down onto the desk in front of Mycroft. "… you can stuff it up your arse."

*

John slammed the front door closed so hard that a bang echoed through the hall, and stomped up the stairs to the flat. Sherlock quickly ran out to the stairway and gave John a worried look.

"John, where have you been for so … oh…" He sniffed the air. "You went to see Mycroft."

"Damn right I saw Mycroft."

His anger hadn't lessened on the way home; instead, it had gotten worse. The messy state of the flat, Sherlock's extra wide pyjama trousers and his delicate gait – of course he was in pain – only fanned the flames of his fury further.

"Your bloody brother snatched me off the street, called me up like a naughty schoolboy to appear in his filthy elitist club, and not only informed me that I was a gold-digger bent on enriching myself through the Holmes fortune, but also that he'd contacted Harry. And why do you think he did all of this? Any ideas, Sherlock?"

"John, I can ex—"

John moved threateningly toward Sherlock, who reflexively retreated until his knees hit the arm rests on the couch.

"Might it be that my omega went against my request – no, my express wishes – and asked his snooty brother for money in my name?"

"That's not—"

"Don't you dare lie to me, Sherlock. I have no idea what you were thinking to discuss my family business with your brother, of all people. But let me tell you one thing: trust, Sherlock, is a fundamental element of a partnership. And before you start worrying about my loyalty and how serious my intentions are regarding our relationship, maybe I should be wondering why I should trust you in the first place."

John poked Sherlock in the chest with his index finger so hard that Sherlock's already precarious balance crumbled and he tipped over backwards onto the couch. He flinched with a pained expression when his backside hit the cushion.

"I have to ask myself when you've ever told me the truth," John muttered unhappily. He fished the pot of salve out of his pocket and tossed it onto Sherlock's lap. "Here, take this. And don't you dare try to pretend you're not in pain."

"John—" Sherlock tried again. He picked up the small plastic container and set it on the coffee table, his hand shaking.

"No," John interrupted him briskly. "I don't want to hear it. Have you at least packed already?"

Sherlock shook his head and lowered his eyes. He fiddled nervously with the belt of his dressing gown as he cautiously manoeuvred himself into a sitting position.

"Of course you haven't," John huffed derisively, although it wasn't unexpected. "Why am I not surprised? You know how early our train leaves in the morning."

He sighed as he turned around. Sherlock's caved-in form and profoundly sorrowful expression were threatening to break down his wall of anger. But he didn't want to give in yet and take care of his omega. And so he set off for the kitchen to get himself a beer when Sherlock said his name again.

"I wanted to speak with you about the visit to the Murrays. I… I don't know if I can go with you," Sherlock murmured in a low voice.

The anger returned in a flash, making John whirl around. He was beside Sherlock in three strides, placing two fingers under his chin and lifting it so that he had to meet his eye.

"Can't you do something for me just once? Is it really too much to ask to spend a couple of days with my friends? After you were the one who suggested it in the first place?!"

Defeated, Sherlock shook his head once John had let go. "No, John."

"Then get to packing your bloody bags!"

With those words, John strode out of the living room and went up to his old room to pack his own things. He didn't come back down that night.

*

The next morning, John staggered downstairs and disappeared directly into the bathroom to have a shower. He then went into the kitchen, where Sherlock was already waiting for him with freshly made black tea and a tired, puffy face.

"Good morning, John."

"Morning, Sherlock," John replied. Most of his anger had dissipated overnight, leaving a dull sense of resignation in its place which made his stomach pinch uncomfortably. He reached for the cup which had been prepared for him and gave Sherlock a half-hearted smile. "Sleep well?"

The omega shook his head and took a sip of his tea. He regarded John with a wary expression.

"John, it's—"

"Sherlock, we—" both men said at the same time, then fell silent.

John sighed and set his cup aside so he could spread his arms. "Come here..."

Sherlock immediately wrapped himself around John, burying his nose in the crook of his neck and taking a quick, sharp sniff of the scent there.

"I'm sorry, John. I was only trying to help."

John let out a long, deep breath before inhaling noisily, infusing his body with Sherlock's scent. The dull throbbing in his stomach lessened slightly. He took a gentle handful of Sherlock's hair and patted it.

"I know, but that's not the way to help me. Especially when I specifically say I don't want that kind of assistance. You can't just make decisions behind my back and disregard my wishes like that."

"If I'd know that Mycroft—" Sherlock mumbled.

"That's not the point, Sherlock. You shouldn't have spoken with him about my family problems in the first place."

"But I didn't—"

"Well, whatever it was, we haven't got time to discuss it now," John cut Sherlock off again and extricated himself from their embrace. "The train leaves in an hour. I hope you've packed?"

"You're not even listening to me!" Sherlock cried unhappily and stood up. "I didn't say a word to Mycroft about your family!"

"Oh no? How did he know about my parents' debts or Harry's problems then? How did he know we had been discussing whether to help them out financially, and in what manner?" John demanded.

"I simply asked about the situation with my trust. It's no secret that Harry drinks, and your parents' debts—"

"It's none of his business!"

"I know that!"

John closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. He exhaled the nervous energy swirling around in his head, his patience dangling by the merest thread. Once he'd counted to ten, he lowered his arm and looked at Sherlock.

"We need to get going. I don't want to miss the train on top of everything else."

Sherlock turned his back and folded his arms, refusing to go into the bedroom to fetch his bag. "It's better for me to stay here."

The words snuffed out the last bit of John's patience, and something inside him snapped. As if he were being piloted by an outside force, he picked up the teacup from the kitchen table and hurled it at the nearest wall. The shattering porcelain made Sherlock whirl around and stare at John, aghast.

"I've had it up to here! First you virtually force me to contact my parents and Bill, and then you do nothing but complain about it! You want to stay here? Fine! But if your heat starts in the next few days, don't expect me to make the trip down here from Leeds, do you hear? I'm not your bloody slave!"

A heat without his alpha would be pure torture for Sherlock. Of course John would also feel the effects, and he didn't want that either. But he wasn't going to be hobbled by Sherlock's dramatics any longer. Not after everything that had happened over the past few weeks.

"Fine," Sherlock said and stalked toward his room with his head held high.

John expected to hear the door slam, signalling that he had lost that battle. Instead, Sherlock re-emerged a few moments later, his travelling case in one hand and his jacket in the other, and went down the stairs.

John followed him, secretly relieved.

*

They didn't say a single word to each other during the three-hour journey to Leeds, which resulted in John falling asleep fairly early on. He'd barely gotten a wink of sleep the night before, and was correspondingly tired. Sherlock also drifted off after a few minutes of the monotonous rocking motion. John woke up shortly before they arrived and gave Sherlock's shoulder a gentle shake to wake him as well.

"Sherlock, wake up. We're almost there."

Sherlock grumbled and grunted something unintelligible, blinking his eyes slowly open. He stretched his back and rubbed his drooping lids.

"You're going to like Bill and Cilia," John said with a hearty yawn.

Sherlock made an ambiguous sound and shrugged. It was then that John recalled the comment Sherlock had made shortly before their departure.

"Why didn't you want to come along?"

Sherlock twitched his shoulders again. "It's not important now. You're going to be the child's godfather and you're good friends with the parents. It makes sense that I should finally meet them after so long."

Sherlock's earnestly spoken words should have placated John, but alarm bells started to clang at the back of his mind. Sherlock had already sounded pretty upset last night when he'd tried to talk to John. But John had been too caught up in his anger for his omega to be able to get through to him.

_Damn it!_

"Are you sure? Is everything all right?" John double-checked. Then an idea flared to life: "You're not working on a new case, are you? Or are you coming down with something?"

Sherlock sighed and shook his head. He checked his watch, brushed his thigh as if smoothing the fabric of his trousers, and stood up.

"No, no case and no illness. Don't worry, everything's fine. I'm just going to nip into the loo."

*

At the station in Leeds, they were greeted by Bill, who yanked John into a hearty embrace and shook Sherlock's hand with a broad smile.

"Grand you could make it. John, you said your omega was good-looking, but I wasn't expecting such a tall drink," Bill grinned, giving Sherlock a mischievous wink.

"Er..."

"Oy, Murray. Behave!" John laughed and took Sherlock's luggage. Sherlock followed the two alphas at a distance of two paces all the way to Bill's car.

Some of the tension fell away from John when he clambered into the passenger seat of the four-by-four and twisted around to give Sherlock an encouraging smile where he sat in the back. "Don't let Bill get your goat, Sherlock. She's always had a big mouth. And Cilia will be there for you to talk to. It'll do us good to spend a few days here. We can talk everything out when we're back home, all right?"

He didn't wait for Sherlock to respond, as Bill got into the car at that moment and started up the engine. She soon had John wrapped up in a conversation about old buddies of theirs, Henry, and the preparations for the christening. John glanced in the rear-view mirror now and then to check on Sherlock. But his omega had turned his head to one side and was staring intently out the window. He looked tense, the corners of his mouth pinched and pointing downward. John intended to talk to him later and try to lay their argument to rest. But for now he turned his attention on his former army buddy.

To John's great bewilderment, Bill didn't drive to the stately manor where he had visited her last time; instead, she pulled into the driveway of a two-storey, ivy-bedecked stone cottage.

"You've moved house?" John asked with surprise and climbed out of the car.

"Welcome to Murray House!" Bill grinned with visible pride. "No extended family here. Just Cilia, Henry, me, and…"

Just then, the whitewashed door of the house was flung open, and Cilia ran out. If it could be called running, as she was preceded by an imposing stomach. She awkwardly pulled John in for a hug, and he in turn clasped her firmly back. The scents of daisies, rock candy, and morning dew infiltrated his nose, causing him to sigh with pleasure.

It wasn't until he heard Sherlock clearing his throat discreetly behind him that he loosened his grip on Cilia enough that he could look her in the eye. He grasped her slender upper arms with both hands and gave them a gentle squeeze.

"God, Cilia. You're even more beautiful than last time! And pregnant again. Why didn't anyone tell me?" John laughed and drew the omega close again. "I'm so happy to see you."

"It was supposed to be a surprise," Cilia beamed. "And now quit dallying and introduce me to your Sherlock."

John stepped aside and gestured vaguely toward his omega.

"Cilia, this is Sherlock. Sherlock, this is Cilia," he said a little stiffly, hoping it wasn't weird for either of the omegas that John and Cilia had once shared a physical intimacy.

His concern dissolved when Cilia put her arms around Sherlock and squeezed him hard.

"Sherlock... I'm _so_ pleased to finally meet you. You have my undying gratitude."

"I… what?"

"But why don't you come inside first," Cilia chattered away cheerfully. "Henry's sleeping at the moment, but the two of you can settle in a bit first. Bill can show you your room, John. I'll take Sherlock to the kitchen so we can finally get to know each other a little better. I've baked the apple pie you like so much. You do still like apple pie, don't you? Sherlock? Does John still like apple pie?"

"Erm..."

John smirked as he watched Cilia grab an obviously confused Sherlock by the hand and drag him inside. Meanwhile, he lifted the luggage out of the boot of the car with an amused Bill and followed her into the house.

"She's been so keyed up since you accepted our invitation. She literally could hardly wait to meet Sherlock. For some reason, she thinks he's responsible for... well, everything going down the way it did. Because of the soul bond or whatever." Bill shrugged her shoulders as she slung John's travel bag over her shoulder and started up a creaking wooden stairway to the upper storey.

John followed with Sherlock's suitcase and the two garment bags holding their suits for the christening. "She was right, you know," John said as he walked through a narrow hallway behind Bill. Soft carpeting covered the old, squeaky floorboards. "We actually do have a soul bond."

"Wow. That's... just wow!" Bill replied with disbelief as she came to a halt in front of the last room at the end of the hall. "I'm really happy for you, truly." She opened a dark brown wood door that complemented the hallway's dark green silk wallpaper perfectly, and indicated that John should go in.

The tastefully furnished guest room was larger than John had expected. Midnight-blue wallpaper with black designs graced the wall. A narrow Chesterfield sofa in leather of the same colour stood in front of a small wood-burning stove in which a cosy fire was burning. The main attraction, however, was the antique canopy bed that stood proudly at the head of the room.

"Bill, it's gorgeous!" John marvelled. "How did the two of you ever find this place?"

The alpha woman dropped John's bag onto an upholstered bench at the foot of the bed before responding.

"It was Cilia's great-aunt's house. She died last year and Cilia was her only heir. I thought long and hard about selling, but decided to keep it in the end. Especially when it became clear that we wanted another child and didn't want to continue living at my parents' estate."

"_You_ thought about selling it? You mean you and Cilia thought about it, right?" John said, taken aback.

"Hm?" Bill queried distractedly. She was just about to leave the room, as John had set down the suitcase and laid the garment bags across the bed. "What's your point?"

"Well, didn't you say Cilia was the one who inherited it?"

"So? I don't understand what you're getting at."

"That it's Cilia's decision what to do with her inheritance?"

"John!" Bill snorted, amused, and looked at John as if he'd lost his marbles. "You know that the alpha automatically gains access to their omega's assets. When we bonded, I..."

Bill trailed off, nonplussed, when John froze in the middle of the room and gaped at her with his mouth hanging open.

"You're not honestly telling me that you didn't automatically gain signature authority over Sherlock's fortune when you bonded, are you? Don't tell me you didn't know that. John? Fucking hell, what kind of alpha are you anyway?"

He knew that Bill's last statement was intended as a friendly jab. And yet it pained John greatly. He actually didn't know what kind of alpha he was. Apparently he didn't even have a grasp of the most basic rules of an alpha-omega relationship. Not to mention that he was unable to turn his partner on enough for him to have regular heats.

Bill was right, just as Sherlock had been right way back when. He was nothing but a poor excuse for an alpha. Bill looked both amused and befuddled as John allowed himself to be led listlessly downstairs.

"Come on, John, let's have some coffee. If I'm not mistaken, the pie should be ready. If you want something stronger, we can sneak a couple of whiskeys in my alpha cave."

With those words, she pushed open the swinging door leading into the kitchen. There Sherlock sat perched on a barstool, trying to whip cream with a mechanical whisk and imploring John for help with his eyes.

+++

tbc


	36. Chapter 36

There was no way around it: Cilia's baking skills trumped Sherlock's by leaps and bounds. Among other things, Sherlock hadn't baked anything since he was a kid, and even then his mother had helped him. These days, he preferred to leave that kind of thing to others. Mainly Mrs Hudson, who baked regularly and brought most of what she made directly into Sherlock's kitchen, over his half-hearted protests.

Mrs Hudson's visits to his flat had become considerably less frequent since John moved in, however. She was probably worried that the alpha didn't tolerate her presence: he'd snarled at her more than once in the past few months. To be sure, Sherlock was generally the cause of such outbursts, but it wasn't clear whether Mrs Hudson was aware of that.

Sherlock sectioned off another mouthful with the dainty fork, spread some of the whipped cream on top which he'd prepared at Cilia's behest, and put it in his mouth. The flavours of buttery pastry, rich cream, cinnamon, and apple melded into a heavenly blend, and he sighed with pleasure. Instantly embarrassed by his conduct, he glanced around, but the others were busy with their own plates and hadn't caught wind of his culinary ecstasy.

John was scrupulously scraping together the last few crumbs on his plate, making certain not to miss so much as a single one. He then licked off the fork and rubbed his stomach contentedly before taking a sip of coffee.

Cilia gave him a wide smile, and Bill's face also reflected amusement. The two women ate much more slowly, secure in the knowledge that this was no singular pleasure but rather part of their normal routine.

"I'm happy you like it," Cilia said, pushing away her nearly untouched plate.

For a fraction of a second, Sherlock was seized by the suspicion that the other omega, having barely eaten anything, might have put something into the pie to which they would now inescapably fall victim. But then he vigorously swept any such thoughts aside. There was no reason to assume that Cilia wanted to get rid of her alpha and their guests; and even if he was wrong about that, her plan would never have worked, as Bill had also only eaten a bite or two.

_You're being paranoid_, Sherlock thought to himself and reached for his coffee cup. He stared down into the dark brown liquid, in which the six lights of the contemporary chandelier hanging over the table were reflected.

"Would you like some milk?" Cilia asked, leaning toward him with a white pitcher in her hand.

Sherlock shook his head and held the cup closer to his chest, as if to prevent Cilia from pouring milk into it. She smiled warmly, set the pitcher back down, and looked over at John. Sherlock followed her eyes and tried to decipher whatever unspoken words were passing between them across the room.

Not even a blind person could have missed the fact that John was overjoyed to see the woman again, and even Bill seemed downright chuffed to see her old buddy again after such a long time. But how deep did the friendship and trust between the two alphas really go? Could it really be true that Bill had instigated her own wife's insemination by another alpha? Had she been present? Or had she stood outside the door and waited impatiently for the deed to be accomplished so that she could immediately go and erase the scent of her rival from her partner? Was it possible for an alpha to possess that much self-control?

John had declared more than once that alphas weren't nearly as mindless and uncontrolled as many people believed, and Sherlock believed him. However, he also knew that John was a very special representative of his kind, and that his upbringing had a lot to do with his relatively modern views. He might experience frequent confusion over what a "real" alpha was – whatever that was supposed to mean – but that also meant that he reflected on his behaviour more than others.

Of course, he didn't always come to a positive conclusion. And who could blame him? Especially as Sherlock was anything but low maintenance, and fairly special himself when it came to the attributes and habits of omegas. In fact, there were probably a number of omegas who wouldn't consider him to be a "real" omega either, despite the fact that his biology was undeniable.

"Cilia, darling, don't you think it's about that time?" Bill said, placing a hand on her wife's lower arm.

"Oh! You're absolutely right," she said and leapt up – insofar as that could be done with her bulging baby bump.

"No, don't, you stay here. I'll get him." Bill helped Cilia to sit down again and winked at John and Sherlock before leaving the dining room. "Time to go wake up the rug rat!"

"We thought at first that we might go to a restaurant with the two of you, but unfortunately our babysitter couldn't fit us in. So we'll be having home cooking tonight," Cilia said with an apologetic smile. "Sherlock, you can help me with the preparations if you'd like."

Upon hearing John's low splutter, Sherlock looked up from his empty plate with indignation.

"What?" Cilia said.

"Nothing, it's nothing. It's just... Sherlock pretty much never cooks. He either leaves all that to me or we order in," John said with a chuckle.

"Oh! You cook? That's wonderful! Bill never cooks for me." Addressing Sherlock, she added, "It's a shame you don't enjoy cooking. It's a wonderful way to care for your loved ones. Did no one ever teach you?"

Uncertain whether she was insulting or teasing him, Sherlock folded his arms and jutted out his chin. "I was too little when—"

"But he's a gifted chemist!" John interrupted with a half-teasing, half-apologetic smile. "I'll bet he'd be a fantastic cook if he had a little practise."

Sherlock didn't know what irritated him more: the fact that John was speaking about him in the third person as if he weren't there, or the implication that he only needed a little practise to be a good cook – a role that Sherlock had absolutely no intention of taking on. He was just about to launch into a biting retort and suggest that John hire someone if he didn't want to cook himself, when a toddler's voice rang out in the hallway.

"Dadaaa!"

Sherlock winced at the loud proclamation. His eyes darted to John to gauge his reaction to the almost-word which could mean so much more than he was comfortable with. But how high was the probability that a toddler who had never seen his biological father could recognise him by smell? Sherlock wasn't aware of any studies along those lines.

John grinned broadly when Bill appeared moments later with Henry balanced on her hip. The first thing Sherlock noticed was the nearly two-year-old boy's fair hair and blue eyes. He was mouthing at his fist, and when he swung it through the air, strings of spittle flew off it. He protested loudly when Bill caught his little arm and tried to restrain it. As soon as she'd set the youngster gently down on the floor, he ran to Cilia and flung his arms around her knees. From there, he peered curiously up at John and Sherlock.

"Da!" he said, apparently fascinated, before checking back with his mother to seek confirmation of his discovery. Cilia lifted Henry up onto her lap and introduced John and Sherlock.

Sherlock's eyes darted anxiously back and forth between the chubby-cheeked boy and John. Beyond the hair and eye colour, their noses seemed to have a similar shape as well – insofar as that could be determined in such a young child. Sherlock inhaled deeply and tried to sort through the scents of all those present in the room.

There was John's contradictory fragrance of sun and moss, Cilia's sugary sweet nuance that almost melted the enamel off his teeth, and Bill's scent of sandy beaches and ocean algae. The aromas of baby powder, ointment, and milky porridge were also prominent. The smell of rock candy clung to Henry too, although that wasn't surprising. But there was something else. Something dark and damp, like the forest floor after a rain shower. What was it? It became increasingly difficult to separate the various odours as John, Bill, and Cilia crowded closely around the little boy, babbling baby talk at his diminutive face.

Sherlock stood up and strode decisively around the table. "May I hold him?" he requested, holding out his arms.

"Er... yes, of course," Cilia said and stood up with Henry. She turned him around and nudged him into Sherlock's waiting arms.

The child drew his eyebrows together and gave Sherlock a sceptical look.

"Sherlock... don't look so serious, you're going to scare him!" John said with a laugh.

Chastened, Sherlock attempted to smooth out his features and not appear quite so grumpy. He recalled how he'd held Archie the first time and moved Henry onto his hip, where he balanced him with gentle bouncing motions. That way, the toddler was able to keep both his parents and their visitors in his field of vision.

Sherlock leaned toward the child's head and inhaled deeply. Yes, definitely: Henry was an alpha. The scent of rock candy was much stronger now, and the other one... Sherlock sucked in another lungful of air... was that blackberry? On the other hand, who knew what the combination of moss and rock candy would result in.

"Dadaaa!" Henry whinged, leaning away from Sherlock. He extended his little fingers toward the group, but when Sherlock looked over, it seemed as if Henry was pointing straight at John.

Sherlock's heart rate increased rapidly, his temperature started to rise, and a deep-seated sense of frustration forged a path through him. He instinctively held the flailing, whimpering boy closer and took a step backwards.

"Sher—"

"Is John the father?" he demanded, speaking loud enough to drown out the child.

John's, Bill's, and Cilia's eyes widened so dramatically it was nearly comical. Shock and confusion were written all over their faces. John's drained of colour entirely, Cilia grasped her chest over her heart, and Bill turned bright red – not out of shame, but fury.

"What the hell are you on about?!" she snapped, which in turn caused Henry to burst out in tears and begin crying bitterly. Cilia was at his side in an instant to lift him away from Sherlock. She turned her back on the group and tried to calm Henry with soft, soothing words.

Sherlock crossed his arms to conceal the trembling in his hands and arched his back to make the most of his full height so that he could look down on the others. "First you talk John into coming here to impregnate Cilia, only to turn around and change your mind and seek out an anonymous donor. Which must have taken place in an incredibly short time frame, if you count back and calculate the duration of the pregnancy – even though there's a lengthy waiting list for suitable alphas. And then by pure coincidence – and you can ask John how I feel about coincidences – it worked on the first try and Cilia got pregnant. And after all that, John is supposed to become the child's godfather? Why?!"

"What do you think you're—" Bill spat, but John raised his hand to stop her. He glared at Sherlock even as a succession of emotions paraded across his face – mainly disbelief and pain.

"Sherlock... that's not what happened at all. Henry is not my son. I never slept with Cilia. Bill can confirm that, she was there and—"

"Do we really have to subject ourselves to this nonsense?!"

"Bill!" Cilia hissed. She strode up to her alpha and handed her their child. "Here, take Henry up to his room. Get him to calm down."

"But—"

"Now!" Brooking no further argument, she thrust Henry into the crook of Bill's neck, where his cries mellowed into sniffly hiccups. Mollified, Bill instinctively held the youngster closer, nodded, and left the dining room without another glance at Sherlock.

Cilia quietly closed the door behind her alpha and folded her hands on top of her belly.

Sherlock was fascinated by the fact that her alpha didn't offer more resistance or simply overrule her omega, but this wasn't the right time to devote any further thought to the subject.

"I think we need to set a few things straight here, all right? What did you tell him about that night, John?" Cilia asked, now much more calm and gentle than a few moments ago.

John looked back and forth between the two omegas and flushed pink. "I... I told him that we... wanted to get you pregnant, but I couldn't... perform," he said, looking aside in shame.

"Is that all?!" Cilia cried incredulously. "No wonder Sherlock gave me a look when you arrived as if I'd personally started a war!" She clasped the sides of her head and massaged the delicate skin at her temples. "All right, sit down, both of you. Sit!" she repeated louder when neither of the men made a move to comply.

John took the same seat he'd been in before, and Sherlock followed suit after a brief hesitation. He almost felt like a chastened child, although he was still convinced they were trying to pull the wool over his eyes. But what fascinated him even more was how self-confident and implacable Cilia was acting; her outward appearance and mild temperament didn't convey the impression that she could assert herself against anyone – much less an alpha! Sherlock couldn't deny that he was deeply impressed by the way she'd sent Bill out to take care of their offspring. His crying had faded away entirely by now.

"So, Sherlock... Bill and I had been wanting a child for a while, although I was certainly the driving force behind that wish. We thought about adopting, but in the end decided against it as we would only have been allowed to take a beta."

Sherlock had never studied adoption laws, but that particular rule immediately appeared logical to him. An alpha or omega child might become an unwilling rival within the family, as it possessed a different genetic makeup and would therefore emit an entirely foreign scent. Since beta biology worked differently, there was no risk of that.

"Of course we wouldn't have had anything against having a beta child of our own," she said, stroking her rounded belly, "but raising an unrelated beta would be a quite different type of challenge."

Sherlock snorted without humour. Cilia's words sounded as if being a beta were a fatal condition, or at least a serious handicap – which was one way of looking at it, compared to the many abilities which alphas and omegas possessed. It was quite likely that many people felt that way. On the other hand, it was just as easy to say that betas were free of both the backwards rules of alpha-omega society and their complicated biology. They might be lesser in some respects, but they certainly weren't worse!

_Huh..._ Sherlock swallowed thickly at the realisation.

"Anyway, we looked at the donor list, and … well it didn't feel right. We considered whether we knew anyone personally that we could ask, and almost immediately John's name came up." Cilia slid one hand across the table and gave John's lower arm a gentle squeeze. "He's loyal, good-natured, brave... yes, sometimes also stubborn and moody, but by and large he incorporates all the best attributes. Bill was always singing his praises, and in the end he's one of the reasons our relationship didn't fall apart."

John smiled self-consciously. Cilia patted his hand again, then withdrew and directed her attention once more at Sherlock. "I was so happy he said yes, and I was certain that my wish would finally come true. But when the moment came, something inside me shut down. I wanted John to be our donor, but I didn't want to sleep with him."

John looked up in surprise and frowned. "Why didn't you... say anything?"

Oh, so this was news to John? Had he not noticed Cilia's discomfort at the time? Had he been so intent on finally having an omega after all those betas?

Sherlock put an end to that train of thought and tried to control the anger coiling in his gut. He felt John regarding him with a contemplative look, but refused to meet his eyes.

"I wanted to get it over and done with. So Bill came in too, and it should have worked, but then... well, you can probably explain it better than I can," Cilia said to John.

Her words implied that Bill hadn't been there from the start, Sherlock couldn't help noticing. He gripped his elbow harder and focused all of his laser-sharp attention on John. Was he going to tell the truth now, after all this time?

John let out a slow, forceful breath, folded his hands on top of the table, and began to speak without looking up. "Bill didn't come in right away. She'd been waiting outside the door. Cilia and I wanted to get the whole thing behind us as quickly as possible, but I wasn't aroused, and... I don't think Cilia was either." He glanced over at the omega, who nodded and gave him an apologetic smile.

"Anyway, I wanted to stop at that point, but Cilia said we should bring Bill in, which I did. The whole situation was awkward; Bill definitely wasn't very happy at the prospect, but she was hell bent on seeing it through. Her presence had a … positive effect on Cilia, and I also started to get aroused. Bill got a firm grip on Cilia, and... "

Sherlock hung on every word. Images matching the tale manifested automatically in his mind's eye, stirring up a full spectrum of emotions that he couldn't even begin to name. At the same time, the story sounded dubious, if not downright shady. Had Cilia resisted? Had her alpha wanted to force her to have intercourse with John – with another alpha? Had John... had he intended to rape her?

Nausea rose in Sherlock's craw. He pressed his lips together and put one hand over his mouth. That couldn't... it couldn't be true. Not John.

"… and all of a sudden I felt this pain. As if someone had reached down into my stomach and yanked on my intestines. I couldn't continue; I could barely even breathe. We stopped then." John must have felt that Sherlock's mood hadn't improved despite the explanation, but worsened markedly, because he looked over at him now.

Sherlock inhaled shakily and turned to Cilia. "Did they... did they try to force you? Did they want to carry out the act against your will?" he asked, and heard John suck in a shocked breath.

"Sher—!"

Cilia shot John a warning look and lifted her hand to signal that he should remain silent. She reached across the table and plucked at Sherlock's sleeve until he grudgingly unfolded his arms and allowed her to grasp his hand. She shook her head.

"He wanted to help us. I gave my consent and wanted him to do what he'd offered to. But it's true that I got spooked halfway in. I would have gone through with it anyway because it was the only way I saw at the time to make my dream come true. The … episode that John had... it prevented all three of us from doing something really stupid. None of us could have known how Bill might react if John had actually... It took weeks before we could make love again after that without thinking about that night. But it wasn't John's fault. None of it was."

Sherlock gazed down at the delicate hand wrapped around his as he considered her words. He didn't know what he was supposed to think or feel.

"That was you, wasn't it? You somehow managed to draw John away from me. You sensed what was going to happen, and you … " She broke off, searching for words. "You put your soul bond into play. Do you have any idea how incredibly impressive that is?"

Cilia's eyes gleamed wetly when Sherlock met her gaze. She slowly heaved her bulk up from the chair and walked around the table; not to Sherlock, but to John, who had curled in on himself. One arm was wrapped around his midsection, and the other was covering his face. A searing pain tugged at Sherlock's heart when he realised that John was crying.

Cilia bent over toward him, laid one arm across his shoulders, and rested her head against his. "It's all right, John. You didn't hurt me. You didn't do anything wrong. It's okay," she said softly.

A hollow space had opened up inside Sherlock's chest, swallowing up every thought, every emotion, like a black hole. He had no idea what to do, or how things were supposed to continue between him and John now. His worst fear hadn't been realised, but he had found out something about his alpha that might alter their relationship forever. What that change might entail... that was a question he didn't have an answer to.

*

Following their conversation, John excused himself and disappeared into the guest room. Sherlock and Cilia stayed behind and cleared off the table together, then went into the kitchen. In order to help the heavily pregnant woman, Sherlock took over the task of putting the plates into the dishwasher and finding a spot for the cake in the crowded refrigerator. Then he helped peel and cut up the vegetables while Cilia prepared the roast.

"I'm so happy the two of you found each other, Sherlock," she said as she sautéed the onions. "The first time I met John, it was as if some fundamental part of him was missing; not unusual when an alpha is separated from their omega. But with John... I don't know. He really seemed to be missing a piece of his soul. I could always sense this profound yearning in him. Is that how you felt too?" she asked.

Sherlock paused and looked down at the long strip of peel still hanging off the yellow potato as he considered. Starch clung to the knife and his fingers, like fine floury grains on his fingertips.

"Yes."

"Oh, that's so romantic! If I hadn't been able to see Bill during all the years she was in the army, I would have gone absolutely mad. I was so happy when she finally gave up the service to be with her family."

"Did you ask her to?" Sherlock inquired. He dropped the peeled potato into the pot which stood ready and reached for the next one.

"Yes, and although she wasn't exactly enthusiastic about having to look for another job at first, she wound up preferring it in the end. The worry that she might get injured and never return to us became greater as time went on, even if it was fairly unlikely given the hospitals where she was stationed. But you know better than anyone how wrong a person can be about something like that."

"Hm," Sherlock grunted.

"Did you... did you feel it when John was shot?" she probed cautiously, although her curiosity was evident.

Sherlock lowered the potato and the knife and lifted his head. "It swept me off my feet, quite literally." He told her how he had collapsed and had to be sedated; how they'd examined him from head to toe, searching for what they assumed to be an external injury; and that they'd eventually ascribed the incident to drug withdrawal. It wasn't something that Sherlock enjoyed reflecting on.

Cilia refrained from asking about the drugs, withdrawal, or the state of his addiction today. John had probably already told her some of it, or perhaps she simply didn't want to invade too far into his privacy and discover all of his dark sides.

"Soul bonds have always fascinated me. It's so rare that you hear about them, and when you do hear something, you never know if it's true or whether the other person is just trying to make themselves look good. It can't be easy to produce proof of a bond like that – yet I don't doubt that the two of you have one, for the simple fact that I've witnessed its power myself. How does it feel now?"

"What do you mean? Right this moment or since John's been back in London?" Sherlock asked, not sure what Cilia expected to hear.

"The latter."

Sherlock shrugged with one shoulder. "It depends. It might lead to a sudden influx of happiness or grief with no apparent reason for the emotion. Sometimes it's a twinge or a dull throbbing sensation, but it's always clear that it comes from him. I don't know if it feels the same for John," he said and placed the next peeled potato into the pot.

"The two of you don't talk much, do you?" Cilia picked up the pot, brought it to the sink, and filled it with water. She then set it on the hob and poured some salt in. "It's never been a problem for me and Bill. I always want to know what she's up to, what she's thinking about, and Bill's always been interested in hearing about my thoughts and feelings. I don't think we would have survived the long periods of separation otherwise. I've always believed in the importance of knowing as much as possible about your partner, and keeping up to date on things; after all, we can't see into someone else's mind. Maybe it's different for the two of you," she said thoughtfully and put a stainless steel lid on top of the pot.

Sherlock pressed his lips together.

_Maybe..._

When the food was ready, John, Bill, and Henry came into the dining room. The little boy had calmed down a while ago, and allowed Cilia to help him with his food, but whenever he glanced over at Sherlock, he got a leery look on his face.

John looked tired and wilted. Sherlock wasn't sure if he'd tried to sleep or just lain in bed for a while. What he did sense quite palpably was the invisible wall that now stood between them. His alpha had only shot him a quick glance when he'd entered the room, a doleful smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, but hadn't said a word. Now he was listlessly pushing his food around on his plate, only half-heartedly participating in a conversation with Bill about old times.

Sherlock felt like an outsider. Like a detached observer who didn't fit into the others' perfect little family. John and Bill weren't trying to include him in their conversation, and all of Cilia's attention was focused on feeding her child and attempting damage control on the associated mess. It wasn't the first time Sherlock had felt this way, and it certainly wouldn't be the last. He was well aware that he wasn't the most desirable guest, with the way he acted and his unpopular views. But adding in the fact that he hadn't been able to talk things out with John yet, and the thorn of uncertainty that was boring into his side, he felt even more off kilter than ever.

_I never wanted to be tied down by an alpha, and now... now we have so much influence over each other that we can't live without one another – no matter how things are now, what's happened in the past, or whatever's to come... _

_How can we overcome all of these obstacles? How?_

*

After dinner, Bill invited John to join her in her alpha cave – a room where she not only kept her valuable record collection and expensive whiskey, but where there was also a snooker table set up, as Cilia informed Sherlock. She explained – while getting Henry ready for bed – that Bill sometimes had the need to get away from it all and be by herself. Alphas, especially those who had lived in a combat zone, needed a space like that in order to work through the recurring memories and flashbacks, and let them go.

Sherlock nodded pensively. John had shared a few things with him about his time in Afghanistan, but certainly not everything. Physical scars were something that others could see and take the measure of, but psychological scars were more difficult to categorise. They might stem from experiences the soldier never spoke of, things they couldn't put into words. Demanding that they open up and share their burden was probably selfish and served the interests of the other person more than the one who was suffering.

How much pain was John carrying around inside him? Did he even have the resources to deal with it on his own?

Sherlock had no idea what the answer was, nor did he have the slightest clue how or even whether to offer John his assistance. He knew all too well how hard it was to deal with such deep-seated pain, even if the cause for his was quite different than John's.

After Cilia had also withdrawn for the night, Sherlock went into the guest room. He changed into his night clothes, cleaned his teeth, and got into bed. Although he was tired, he didn't feel like sleeping yet, so he decided to read for a while.

John didn't return to their room until shortly before midnight. When he caught sight of Sherlock he froze in the doorway like a deer caught in the headlights. After a brief hesitation, he came the rest of the way in and closed the door. He slowly took off his clothes and dug what he needed for the night out of his bag. His footsteps were sluggish and unsteady, and he was shrouded in the scent of whiskey.

Sherlock watched silently as John went into the en suite bathroom. The sound of the toilet flushing and water running filtered through the door. Several minutes passed before John returned to the bedroom, teeth cleaned, face washed, and sat down on the bed.

"We need to talk," he said without turning around.

"You're drunk."

"No, not at all."

Sherlock set the phone he'd been reading from on the nightstand and examined John's back, the outlines of his muscles visible beneath his t-shirt. He pushed himself up into a sitting position and waited tensely for John to say whatever it was he needed to.

John slowly swivelled around to face him, as if checking that Sherlock was listening, then let out a heavy sigh. "What happened back then, it... it wasn't right. And even though my first impulse is still to say that I was just trying to help, I realise now that we went too far. If it hadn't been for you... If our bond hadn't made sure that... " John shook his head regretfully. "I would have blamed myself for the rest of my life."

"I wish you'd shared all the details with me sooner," Sherlock said in a low voice.

"I know, and I'm sorry. I didn't mean to treat it all like some big secret. If you'd told me what your concerns were, I would have told you sooner."

Sherlock nodded slowly. He was well aware that they both bore part of the responsibility when it came to poor communication in their relationship. "Are there any other... incidents that I should know about?" he asked.

John shook his head. There was a hint of pleading in his expression. But it was too early for a reconciliation. They still hadn't discussed everything they needed to.

"There is something that _you_ should know," Sherlock said. His heart pounded nervously in his chest, and his palms were damp with perspiration.

John drew his legs up onto the bed so that he could turn to face Sherlock all the way. The look on his face was one of worried foreboding, etching lines into his skin.

"Before I became acquainted with Sebastian, I procured Seven through another channel. My dealer at the time was an excellent chemist, and the quality of his product far exceeded Sebastian's," Sherlock explained. "One day, when I was in a particularly bad state, he claimed not to have anything for me. The last two doses that he had on hand were already spoken for, and he said he couldn't give them to me. Or at least not without something in return..."

"Okay...?" John sounded wary, but he didn't see the full picture yet.

Sherlock took a deep breath. "He wanted me to blow him."

John inhaled sharply and his body tensed up as if expecting a blow. Fury transformed his face, colouring his cheeks red. "Sherlock, what the – Did you – ?!"

"Yes. Just the once. He tried it again a second time, but I broke his nose and ran away. I haven't heard from him since, much less tried to contact him."

"Fuck, _fuck_!" John swore and stood up. He paced back and forth from one side of the room to the other, clearly trying not to lose control over himself altogether.

Sherlock could virtually see the questions and reproaches flitting across his face, as expected.

_How could you?!_

_You let yourself be tricked into performing sexual favours just to get your next fix?!_

_How irresponsible and stupid—_

_Did you never consider what I—_

But they hadn't been together back then. Sherlock had been the one who suffered the most from their soul bond because he'd felt it every time John was with someone else. How could John resent the fact now that Sherlock had moved heaven and hell to escape the torture?

"What's his name?" John demanded.

"What does that matter? He overstepped, and I made him pay for it. It's been settled. Tracking him down now to wring his neck wouldn't make things better," Sherlock said calmly.

"Fuck!" John cursed again and sank to his knees on his side of the bed. He rested his forehead against the foot of the mattress, clearly trying to get a grip on the chaos in his head.

Sherlock flipped the cover back and got up. He lowered himself beside John and placed his hands gingerly on his shoulders. "We all have a past that we can't change. I fell in love with the man you are today – with all of the experience, mistakes, and scars you've collected over the years."

The taut quivering in John's shoulders slowly settled. He reached up to Sherlock's hand on his shoulder and gave it a firm squeeze, then slowly turned to face Sherlock. It looked as if he wanted to say something, but couldn't get any words out.

Maybe it was better this way. They both knew that there were many dark spots in the other one's history, and that they might yet stumble across many more. Running off half-cocked to seek revenge for things that happened years ago would only soothe his own ego. And Sherlock had to admit that he hadn't felt any urges in that direction after confronting John, Bill, and Cilia with his suspicions.

"Come to bed now," Sherlock said, and pulled John to his feet. John allowed himself to be tugged down onto the mattress easily enough. Sherlock snuggled up to him, his back lined up with John's front, pulled the blanket over them, and clicked off the light. He dragged John's arm around him and sighed softly, exhausted from the emotionally charged day.

*

When Sherlock awoke the next morning, the space beside him in the bed was empty. John's overnight bag sat there open with the edges of a couple of clothing items peeping out. He was apparently up and dressed, and had gone down to join Bill and Cilia.

Sherlock wiped the sleep out of his eyes, got out of bed, and went into the loo to have a shower and clean his teeth. After he'd got dressed, he went down the stairs to the main level of the house. He could already hear Henry's excited voice from afar, accompanied by the enthusiastic pitter-patter of a small child's footsteps echoing through the house. The aromas of bacon, eggs, and toast hovered in the air, but when he stepped into the kitchen, it wasn't Cilia he saw by the stove, but Bill.

She turned around and gave Sherlock a brief nod. "Morning. Breakfast will be ready in a moment."

"Good morning," Sherlock replied, then stood there at loose ends. Henry came running in, only to skid to a halt when he caught sight of Sherlock, his eyes widening as he stared.

Bill, having noticed her son's reaction, grabbed the youngster under his arms and lifted him up. "You gave him quite a turn yesterday. Don't be surprised if he's a little wary around you," she said, as if she felt it necessary to explain Henry's behaviour.

"I apologise, it wasn't my intention," Sherlock said, clasping his hands behind his back. He couldn't help but notice that Bill didn't make any attempt to placate Henry or tell him that Sherlock wasn't going to hurt him. She simply offered him protection and a safe distance. Sherlock clearly picked up the note of rebuff in her scent, and Henry must have as well, presumably sending him even more mixed signals.

Holding Henry in one arm, Bill picked up the toast and put it into a basket, which she then set onto the small breakfast table surrounded with exactly two chairs and one highchair. She settled Henry, then looked over at Sherlock. "Can you get the pan?"

Sherlock went to the stove, lifted the heavy pan and spatula, scooped some of the fried egg onto the plates which stood ready, and set the pan back down. A strange sense of foreboding coalesced in his abdomen, but he sat down opposite Bill anyway. Henry followed each of his moves with a watchful eye.

Bill took a piece of toast, tore off one corner, buttered it, and handed it to Henry.

"Where are John and Cilia?" Sherlock finally asked.

"They have a couple of errands to run. For the christening. A meeting with the vicar and a couple of things to pick up. They should be back this afternoon." Bill speared a chunk of egg with her fork, popped it into her mouth, and took a bite of her toast.

"Ah," Sherlock said, staring down at his plate.

"Coffee's in the pot if you want," Bill said, nodding her head in its direction. Her hospitality had apparently vanished into thin air overnight, or at least been reduced to a minimum. Or maybe this was simply how she treated other alphas' omegas. Sherlock still didn't know very much about John's former army buddy, as he was becoming excruciatingly aware.

Sherlock got up and went over to the coffee machine, if only to put a little distance between himself and the alpha.

"Pour me a cup too, would you?" Bill said, although it sounded more like an order than a request. Was this a test?

"Of course. Milk?"

Bill demurred. Sherlock filled two cups and returned with them to the table. He took a sip while it was still much too hot and watched Bill stuff egg into Henry's wide-open mouth.

"I always suspected that you were a selfish prick," Bill said with a nonchalance that made Sherlock look up with a start. "Seeing John suffer through all of your little idiosyncrasies over the years was anything but fun. Last night wasn't even the worst of your offences." Bill hadn't raised her voice a single notch, instead laying out her accusations calmly and in a neutral tone – probably so as not to alarm Henry.

Sherlock stared at the alpha with a combination of fascination and irritation.

"First the bond which wasn't even real, then the refusal to so much as see him even though it was obvious how much he needed it. You haven't the slightest notion how hard it was over there, and how much we had to witness. Coming home to Cilia was the only thing that kept me sane. But John..." Bill raised her gaze to look Sherlock in the eye for the first time.

"You hurt him. You used him and pushed him away because you can't accept that you're an omega. And the whole drug thing? Do you have any idea what that did to him? I was there when John was forced to live through your overdose as you lay dying. He suffered like a bloody dog," Bill growled and abruptly looked away. She swallowed thickly, forcing herself to remain calm.

"No!" Henry cried and hurled his gnawed-on piece of toast across the table. Bill picked it up and set it back onto his plate.

"You apparently haven't the first clue how lucky you are, Sherlock. Did you ever consider what might have happened if a very different kind of alpha had agreed to bond with you? Someone like that Moran fellow? He already had a bunch of omegas, one more wouldn't have made a lick of difference, now would it? You would have argued something like that anyway. But you know better than anyone else now how differently the whole thing might have gone."

Sherlock swallowed audibly. His hands were shaking. He hid them under the table and squared his shoulders as if preparing for another verbal blow. "Just say whatever it is that you need to get off your chest, Wilhelmina."

Bill bit down on her lip and glanced off to one side as if she needed to examine the words in her head from all sides before voicing them. When she finally spoke, her voice sounded tense and thin. "I want you to finally admit how good John is for you. He loves you... more than anything else in the world... but if you don't let him – if you resist his feelings and ignore your own, it's going to destroy him sooner or later. It's going to destroy both of you."

"I... I don't know... how..." Sherlock admitted in a small voice. There was a roaring sound in his ears, and the staccato beat of his heart echoed through the emptiness inside him.

"Just let him love you."

+++

tbc


End file.
